A year ago this week, we pulled up the shallow roots we had put down in North Carolina, loaded a truck, and moved west.
Not too far west, but still. Five hours, give or take, from the place we’d been licking our wounds and finding our balance as a family redefined.
So many hopes, so many dreams. Moving felt like a reach towards normalcy. So how did we fare?
Better than I had dreamed.
Our home, our land? It’s the good measure pressed down to overflowing. We are comfortable here, peaceful, with enough room to stretch our legs when we choose (soccer games in the side yard are pretty much a given on just about any day), but cozy enough to feel embraced by the sheer sense of home.
We have made friends, found community. We’ve got involved. We’ve hosted events here, and found a new sense of welcome from the tribe we’ve adopted.
We’ve found our way, our places. We know the library stacks, how to navigate without Siri, and where to find the best milkshakes.
We knew when the lightning bugs would show up this year, can tell how bad a storm will be by the direction it blows in from, and aren’t surprised by most of the wildlife. (Barring skunks of course.)
We are home.