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This morning I am listening to the sound of settling all around me.  Settling into this new space with the large windows.  Settling into routines and where to hang the keys and what day to pull out the trash cans. Acknowledging the little buds of roots emerging underneath this new life.
We have moved five times in the last five years.  We just bought a home, the seventh house that my 10-year-old daughter will call home.  We have boxed and unboxed, broken down boxes, stored boxes, taped old boxes back together.  We have assembled and disassembled our furniture, lifted every piece into trucks and trailers and driven across town and across the country.

I have grieved the loss a life that cannot be reproduced.  I have searched for home, scouted out people, clung to people who felt strange, then ignored them and hid when it felt too lonely.  I have shown up to events and classes and coffee dates and left with the jittery certainty that I said something weird.  I have felt unknown in the company of wonderful people.  I have felt that my life was like wearing uncomfortable pants.

We have rented, bought, and sold houses.  We have knocked down walls, put in windows, ripped out carpet.  We have lived in a city.  We have had beautiful properties where our chickens roamed freely.  We have had the physical house and land and tree house we always wanted, but it still felt like a life being lived underwater.  

We have been too quiet and have drunk too much.  We have talked about divorce.  We have reconnected in the mountains.  We bought a van and a camper and found adventure.  We have felt defeated and resigned, but continued to dream anyway.  We never stopped shifting in our seats.  We clasped hands and took plunges.

This morning I woke up back on the coast that feels like home.  I look out of the windows and see towering pines, tangles of blackberries, the haze from distant fires.  There are still boxes to unpack, shelves to hang, problems to solve.  But I can feel, deep down in the juice of my bones, that there is time for all of that.  That I am softening deeply into the womb of this home.

This morning someone came to pick up the mountain of flattened boxes on the front porch.  I inhaled deeply, and as she drove away, exhaled.

Ali is a resident of Blue Lake, CA in gorgeous, magical Humboldt County.  She is gleefully anticipating what comes next...