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Today, it’s finally ours, this new home, this new place we inhabit. A place of peace, and security, and consideration, and kindness, and more love and more fun, and more care given to each other. This is our new home.
A literal new house with a football-field-sized yard, in the country, with trees, and stars and the moon at night, and amazing sunsets and sunrises, with this giant oak centered in the back yard, spreading its limbs as shelter and shade. Inside, it is open and bright and airy, easy and comforting. Outside, it is home. Home to the woods and the trees and the dirt I grew up with, the feels and smells and sounds. Roots that run so deep in me are springing to life, not just recalling certain known things, but giving those things to me again.
This morning it is cold, freezing cold. The moon is heavy and low. The animals are crouched and still. In this cold, and in the stillness, and in the dried brown grass crusted with frost, I can feel spring.
But there is more here, more than a chance to revive childhood recollections, other chances we now can take. We begin a new life together, with a renewed awareness of how precious it is, how dear, to be able to be together, to have one another’s love and attention, to be able to say finally, and fully, you come first with me, and I come first with you.
Does it sound exclusionary, isolationist? Maybe it does. We have reached an age, a time, when we both recognize that the time we have is all we have, and we mean to spend it deliberately, thoughtfully, on each other.
Retirement, that’s what I told people about why we wanted to move, to get ready for retirement. We are not retiring. We are coming to life again, and life is coming to us in the most surprising ways.
We feel free, and better, and excited about each day.
They call it closing, when you sign all the papers to buy a house. I call it opening up, smelling the fresh pages of a new book.