Inch by Inch, Row by Row

And so we wait and my head is filled with questions that are insignificant and cumbersome all at once: Do I divide my perennials and bring duplicates of them with me, without having any idea what horticultural treasures may already be in place at the new house?  Do I dig up the mock orange that grows outside of Harrison's room, the one that once grew outside of my bedroom window when I was a child?  What furniture should we bring, or ditch altogether?  What color will we paint the living room, the room that we both agree must be the first room painted?  How on earth are we going to move without movers?  And while we're talking about that, might it not be intelligent to hire some movers, if only for the big furniture?

There are things here that my heart will ache with missing, like the gardens in front of our porch that we made rise from the dust with our bare hands, lots of labor, and the sheer will to make things grow.  It is, if I say so myself, a place of beauty and I will hate leaving it behind.  In weak moments I will miss the completedness of our house here, the fact that the rooms are all painted and the curtains are hung, that the artwork is placed just so on the walls.  But I know, too, that we can make more gardens rise from the earth, that we can paint rooms and tile floors and tidy up kitchens and make bathrooms sparkle and eventually it will shine just like this house does.   And I know, too, that many of these concerns are about trivial things and that our reasons for moving (more house; less yardwork; walk-ability to downtown, library, and parks; a community with greater diversity; proximity to our target school; better financial positioning) far outweigh the trivial unknowns we are about to face.

I know that the most important things, memories and family and friends, are coming with us no matter where we go and that knowledge melts away all fears, leaving me filled with excitement for this new adventure.