I’ve somewhat neglected my roots, and it’s time to tend to them again. I don’t mean the greys on my head, or the marigolds in my miniscule garden. I refer much more metaphorically to my place in the world – to my home.
Four years ago, I sold the home in which we raised a family, got rid of most of my stuff, and moved to a low-maintenance apartment for two years. It never felt like home, and when I left for a year in England, I shed even more stuff, including my car, said goodbye to communal living, and moved to a tiny one bedroom flat in the quaint Old Town neighborhood of Stratford Upon Avon. My tendrils took to the English countryside, and grew deep and strong, so they resisted mightily the digging up and repotting back here in Connecticut. They struggled to re-adjust to the sun, surf, and soil.
But I’ve acclimated and feel ready to re-root in this, my hometown. The rental I’ve lived in since returning has felt like the temporary plastic pots that plants come in; fine for the short term, but cheap and uncomfortable for the long term.
I looked and looked, with a very patient and helpful realtor, for something that would fit me better. It’s an exciting but stressful process, especially because it’s the first place I’ll have purchased on my own. I wanted to settle, but I didn’t want to settle.
I closed this Monday on a small townhouse near Saugatuck that I hope will suit me for a long time to come. I dread the transition; moving several times in a short time is unsettling at best. I look forward, though, to making this new place my own, and settling into town again with yet another new perspective. To a place where I can firmly put down roots and blossom again.