Years ago, at a time when things in my life were changing, I took a road trip that took me all around the Pacific Northwest and into British Columbia. Along the way, I landed on Whidbey Island, Washington, and I knew instantly that I'd found home.
It was an odd feeling, the sense of recognizing somewhere I'd never been before. But there were echos of places I'd lived and loved. The tall pines and cozy small farms and water at every turn reminded me a bit of where I'd lived in New Hampshire. There were charming towns that reminded me of Nantucket.
The quiet, calm energy of the place felt ... normal. Just quiet, calm, and normal.
And, I will confess, that I have had a thing about living on an island for quite a few years. I think it stems from reading the novels of Elisabeth Ogilvie as a teenager -- her books follow lobster-fishing families on an island off of the coast of Maine, and they enthralled me. They still do.
So, flash forward 7+ years, and here I am living in a new home on Whidbey Island. I held on to the Whidbey Island dream and visited for vacation for a few more times after that first visit to see if that sense of "home" was real or imagined. It was real.
A host of circumstances made this the right time. Housing prices in Sonoma County, California made it an ideal time to sell up. Three or four years of annual wildfire evacuations left both Miss C and me feeling that we'd spent our last fire season in California. And the feeling that I am not getting any younger was on my mind too, of course.
I have left behind family and dear friends, but they are not out of my life. I'll be zipping back to California fairly often, I know, and eventually I will have guest space that is not crammed full of boxes waiting to be unpacked.
Thanks to a lovely realtor here in the island, I found a house in a small, quiet neighborhood that was move-in ready, had oodles of storage, and -- amazingly enough -- has a view of a small lake from the back decks. (Yes, decks. There are two!) More on that in future posts.
Our goods arrived at the house on June 1, and I am in the throes of unpacking and finding things and figuring out where to put things and making list upon list of what needs doing or adding. I remind myself that I can't recreate a lived-in-for-20-years environment in 3 weeks. It's the beginning of a new adventure and a new home, and it will unfold as it unfolds.
I've always been amused when I take a wrong turn and the GPS genie says "recalculating" before she sorts out a new path. Isn't that what life is, really? A series of recalculations after each turn or new event? That's what I'm doing now. Sorting out a new life in a new place. I hope you'll come along with me for the journey.
