Moving Reflection

I am sitting in my small den off the kitchen listening to the birds on a sunny morning, two days before we move. Suddenly, I am overcome with missing this home, this room, this place.

My days have been spent packing and planning, coordinating and making sure the process will go as smoothly as possible. It took a long time to sell our house, and it is time to go. Yet, as I sit in the stillness, with the sun streaming in familiar ribbons across the room, I stop to feel the solemnity of the moment. Almost 14 years, the house my girls remember most as their home, a chapter in our lives.

In this room, there is a beautiful fireplace with two different moldings. It reminds me why my husband and I have always liked old homes. However, we are now moving into a newly built house, albeit a "colonial" with high ceilings, wide moldings and other attractive features.

I will also miss the familiarity of the house; it is known and comfortable like a favorite pair of shoes. The neighborhood has beautiful old trees and rock outcroppings, lots of streets of various grades which are perfect for walking. Within a couple of blocks, three good friends of mine are just a spontaneous phone call away. I know I'll continue to see them, but it will not be like it is now.

Except for our three years in London, we have lived in the same general area for 28 years. Whatever I need, I know where to go. I now understand why people return to their old neighborhoods and stores for shoe repairs or fresh fish; these are vendors we've been doing business with for years and it's familiar, like a family that has relied on each other for a long time.

In many respects I am lucky to be moving only eight minutes away, so that I can come back if I choose to do so. However, I have a feeling that once we're in the new house, it will be fun to explore and find new haunts: restaurants, services, walking routes and ways to get from here to there.

So I allow myself the momentary melancholy and know that the missing is what makes the parting so much sweeter and more poignant. It reminds me of what and whom is most important to me, and I feel blessed to have so much.

How Much Do We Really Need?

Note: This entry was written in the spring and inadvertently left as a draft. However, the message is not date- or time-specific.

No electricity.
No phones.
No heat.
No internet.
No transportation (other than one's own two feet!).

With the flooding a few weeks ago, we had this very predicament. There was a large tree across our driveway, so no way to get the cars out.

In some ways, it was like a snow day, until it stretched to two days, then three (we were able to get the cars out after two and a half days). The house got very cold. I didn't mind the candles and figuring out how to do things by the light of day (sort of made me feel like a pioneer woman). Then I got sick with a bad cold. It made me wonder how much and what I need to be comfortable in this world.

One would think the simpler we live, the less we need. But living simply out of choice is very different from being forced to live "simply" because you cannot afford to live any other way. And where is the dividing line between a pared down way of life and not having enough food on the table?

I like to think I don't need that much but I wonder. I wonder what would happen if there was a more serious situation, a prolonged period of doing without. The media has recently given us a heaping dose of cataclysmic events (movies such as 2012, The Road). Current events around the globe reek of wars, genocide, and crises like Hurricane Katrina and the earthquake in Haiti which give hardship and deprivation new meaning.

How much do I really need? I'm not sure. Most people would not voluntarily choose to test themselves on this score. I may never truly know the limits of my discomfort.

I do know I have what I need, and much more, and I'm grateful.