Whew. We made it. Across 135 miles and a week of packing and a day of unpacking and two months of living in the way station of the Death House and almost three years of tirelessly hustling as therapists and new parents - we made it. We are here now, and now, here, we will still hustle and wait and watch and prepare for more unfoldings, more changes. But I cannot ignore this feeling that, at last, some cosmic symmetry is coming into focus. We've turned a new page. We are starting a new tome, a new flow. And even as I type this, my mother appears and tells my father, "Relax, go have a bath," and Janelle nurses Eleanor to sleep in the back room.
Me, I just woke up from a fevered hypnagogic dream involving muslims, rock piles, blue skies, and Vedanta. I looked around and found my dad hovering over me. "You okay?" I'm okay. Just tired. "You should be. Today was a hard day." He meant the whole day of unpacking the U-Haul, Jeep, and trailer (pictured above) and settling in. And he was right. Today was a hard day. Not the hardest in my life, by a long shot. But suffice it to say that we will all sleep well in Manchester tonight.