The move is D O N E !!! No more suburbia for this gypsy! I'm officially a backwoods country hick now. I couldn't be happier. As is typical, nothing truly good happens without some tremendous effort, and I owe a huge debt of gratitude to those who helped me - Wendi, Rich (my boss, which is secondary to being my friend) and his wife Sue, and Bob. Especially Bob (newest dingo of the dog pile) - what an unstoppable brute force! I barely knew the guy - he just started dingo-ing about a month ago (well, I know him better now that we spent the better part of Saturday hauling, bumping into each other, and riding in the truck together for a couple of hours). And yet, he was very graciously willing to sacrifice his Saturday and help me. People with that kind of heart win big prizes in my camp.
Yesterday afternoon, I loaded up the last of the stuff in the garage and swept out the Kirkland house. I spent two minutes feeling nostalgic and wistful - remembering time spent with John (the good, the bad, and the ugly), recalling some wonderful visits with various folks, the ease with which Scott just sort of wandered into my existence there... I didn't brood, didn't ponder long. I just sort of brushed over my humble collection of internal movies in a very fast fast-forward to the rich bits. Then I washed the dirt and dust of the place from my hands and face, hopped in the truck and headed for home.
An hour or so later I pulled into my driveway, cut the engine, and sat for a moment just listening to the sound of the river. The river and nothing else. I let the cobwebs of the day get washed downstream in the current and thought, "I've done it. This is mine, my time. For so long this is what I've waited for and wished for and here it is. For however long I get to, this is my life."
The main cabin is pretty much arranged and unpacked and looks as though I've lived there for a long time. The Black Inkpad will take a bit more unpacking and organizing before it's done, but I've made great strides in getting my art studio done. It's as if the stuff belongs there, knows where it wants to go. I can't wait until I allow myself the freedom of a rainy afternoon spent deep in the clutches of my muse, hearty pot of deep brew steaming in the kitchenette, something bluesy and dreamy playing on the stereo... bliss.
This is the thought that occupies, "I've finally come home."