I was standing in our new garage today, painting the shelves that will house our books in the new house. The garage door was open and the golden light of the winter sun was slanting in as it slid down the horizon. I had just placed a fresh, unpainted board on the sawhorses and I leaned on it for a moment, surveying the street on which we will live for the foreseeable future. It was a surreal moment and I could hear a flock of geese honking overhead, migrating.
I'm done migrating now, and it feels a little odd after so many years of coming to and going from. I think I rather liked the change, although you wouldn't know it from the onsets of panic I get when moving. Still, it's just such a strange thought to own a piece of earth—as much as one can these days—and to know that you'll be staying in once place. I'm thrilled by it and afraid of it at the same time, but in that moment—with my hands on the smooth, fresh grain of the wood, the warmth of the departing sun, the birds on their way above me—it didn't feel anything like fear and everything like coming home.