It hit me a couple of days ago, that I was beginning to feel settled in this house now. I explained to a friend that for the first time I had walked into our bathroom upstairs and turned left instead of right to click on the light switch. Then that evening, after turning off the downstairs lights to ascend the stairs to bed, I navigated across the dark kitchen and didn't bump into anything. I'm developing a physical sense of comfort here in this house. I'm aquiring a physical blueprint of the space that will become part of me. As someone who's been used to working very physical jobs in the past--kitchen work is nothing if not intensely physical--I feel best when I am physically at home, when my body fits into places, when my arms and legs and hands know exactly where to go and what to do.
That's all true. But today I felt even more satisfied that this is home now. A set of neighbors that we already kinda know dropped by with a bottle of wine to welcome us to the street. As they were leaving, another neighbor dropped by with her son to invite Sister to a birthday party next weekend. About an hour later, a woman I used to work with who is fast becoming a good friend came for a visit with her baby son, just a little younger than Bean. And while she was still here, yet another neighbor arrived with our previously broken tiller he'd worked on, agreeing to replace the motor in return for 50% ownership. He's a 2-minute walk from us now so this should work out fine.
Now, I'm not trying to get all Prairie Home Companion on everyone here, but I always used to imagine that I'd live in a house with lots of friends and family around livening things up. I'd cook and bake for them, make yummy drinks and sit on the porch with them, have our kids all play together and not mind that the house was getting trashed. That seemed like such a good life to me, and still does. Maybe it's beginning now.