Duh.

I’m spending this week at mom and dad’s, packing up the house to make room for our clown car of children and their various accoutrements. Going through mom’s things has been harder than I’d imagined. It’s just stuff, but it was her stuff and she loved it. Picking what to keep or not feels so cold and impersonal. It’s also a reminder that, although I think of her in present tense, she is firmly planted in the past tense. This house formerly belonged to my grandparents and there are three generations of memories here. Even without her stuff, mom is everywhere.

The house isn’t exactly in the country, but it’s definitely not the city, either. The neighbors next door have chickens and the family across the street has a huge garden and three horses. Everyone’s got a tractor and the deer come up to the porch to eat mom’s flowers. She hates them. I don’t and I think I may plant food for them next spring. Life just runs at a different pace here.

I have known for some time that our family is supposed to move here. I wasn’t sure why, but every fleece we laid out was answered in spectacular fashion. The best gift of this week, despite it’s sharp and bittersweet edges, has been the realization that we’re supposed to be here because of that pace. Because quiet, peaceful mornings are rare and should be treasured. Because I’m meant to bring my wild and crazy, too loud and too big self here and share what I have with this community. Because there is a legacy here and I want my kids to be a part of that. Because we are all better and more whole together.

I sat under mom’s favorite tree the other day. It’s a gigantic maple tree, taller than the house and so lovely. The wind turns that tree into a whispering spot ripe with magic and shadowed splendor. I hung the chandelier I made for that magical spot and had a long talk with mom about our move. And, when I asked her if I was doing the right thing, she rolled her eyes with that eyelash flutter of hers and said simply, “Duh.”