I've lived in a lot of places. Three countries. Five states. Nine cities. I've lived in houses, apartments, dormitories, a colonial mansion (converted into an orphanage), a panelak, and rebuilt flat in an ancient city center, and a few basements.
Right now, I'm living in the home where my grandparents lived all my life. At this very moment I'm curled up on their old rocking couch where I watched cartoons as a child while petting the original Mitzi the poodle. I have a couple throw pillows from Hong Kong tucked in around me, and the blanket my friend Julie crocheted for my wedding wrapped around me.
This is a place filled with old memories, and is the first home my husband and I have shared on our own. Across the street, the Browns have been living for countless years. Mr. Brown is a few months younger than my Grandpa would be if he was still alive. Some nights, when I am cleaning the kitchen after a late dinner, I can see him framed in the window, keeping an eye on the neighborhood. In the morning, if he is outside when I am leaving, we wave and greet one another. But we aren't home often. The daily drive to Portland takes a lot out of me, leaving little time or energy for spending time with the neighbors.
It's the fourth of October, but miraculously, the rains have not begun to fall. Tonight, on my drive home, the horizon was the color of a fresh peach. The winds have started to blow, and a chill is in the air.
I don't know what the future holds. Will our little shop blossom, or fade? Will we continue to live an hour away from work, or one day find ourselves in the city? Will I suck up enough courage to publish my book (and those yet to come), or continue to let the fear of failure keep me unmotivated?
All I can know for certain is that this is where I live right now, so my primary goal is to make the most of it.