It has been a year here, in what finally resonated recently as a home, my home.
I’ve lived here, in this space for almost two years but I never really took the time to take it all in.
The city views and bristling trees.
The birds that occasionally visit, hummingbirds, sparrows and the like.
The way that the seasons seem to stretch to no end.
How the sun hits at the golden hour, cascading freely.
Certainly more free than we in this last year of necessary isolation.
It’s been a year of being here, in one place.
Finally slowing down…
Long enough to notice my neighbors across the way.
A piano player, an opera singer and the one that isn’t ashamed to play old black and white flicks loud enough to fill the courtyard.
All making do of this time within in their own way.
I never quite felt I was at home.
In my element.
My own state of being.
I just never had the time.
But then today it hit me as I was looking out across…
To hilltops and an endless sea of trees and red tile roofing…
Taking in the quite stillness that still feels odd for what was once a bustling afternoon,
And it hit me…
How lucky I am to be able to call this my home.
To be able to enjoy the moments I took for granted
Watching the world around me buzz by…
Now I see it all, all that I can see from my balcony.
And it’s a simple joy,
To just be here,
In this moment,
Without 15 minute breaks and rush hour traffic.
Without routine mornings and if I’m honest routine evenings.
Being here, in my home, on a Friday in February.
On a weekend that symbolizes love for so many.
It feels for me as a time of love too.
Not of another.
But of myself and this space I am creating,
That for now I can call my own.
There is nowhere else I’d rather be.