There’s something oddly satisfying about settling into a new home. A new place to call “yours”. It might be an ancient house, or a brand newly-built apartment or condo… but to walk into an empty space, and fill it with your things, your food, your clothes, your life, subsequently bringing it to life… your life… your new life.
Unpacking in this new place, this time, I’m filled with mixed emotions with each box. First, I check the label someone scrawled in gigantic Sharpie marker, and try to decipher their good intentions:
CHATCHKEEEEEEEEEEEEES
RANDOM LIVING ROOM GOODNESS
MASKSKSKSKSKSKSKSKSKS
Then, I pry it open (much to the angst of the cats, who seem to hate the noise of packing tape with every fiber of their being) and then I wade through the layers of bubble wrap, newspaper, air pockets and t-shirts (which make excellent packing material, in case you’re in a pinch!) and then a reaction, sometimes multiples within the same box:
“YES! I’ve been waiting excitedly to unwrap this one!” or
“I remember when I got this….” cue trip down memory lane… or
“Why on earth did we keep this?” or
“Oh, that’s where that got stowed away!” or even
“I haven’t seen this since the last two times I moved, but now, all of a sudden, I have the perfect spot for it.”
But all of these, and more, put together, seem to unwrap Martin’s and my new life, here in Champaign.
Our new stove hasn’t been delivered yet, so we’ve spent the last week relying on the microwave, the toaster and the slow cooker (because, honestly, what can’t you make with those?) but yesterday, we had an adventure: We bought a Weber. We bought a Weber, and assembled it in the backyard, while drinking beer and soaking up this new life we’re building. We made a killer dinner, and after we’d cleaned it all up, we collapsed, exhausted, on the couch. We reveled in the day we’d had.
I looked at Martin and said, “This is our house.”
Martin looked back at me, and smiled, saying, “This is our life.”
We’ll take it.
A Hopeful Midwesterner 