The god of thunder and living in the moment

The anniversaries of our leaving North Carolina and, three days later, arriving here in Denver came and went with no fanfare, which was exactly as I wanted it. I considered a blog entry but decided against it; and now, months hence, I thought maybe I should explain myself. Too much fanfare, I thought, would give further validation to The Year of Living in the Past, which is now officially dead and buried. For that there is no sadness for me, only celebration.

I still miss my old home, and my pond, and the summer daylilies. It didn’t feel like a proper spring without dogwoods. There are no flowers here in this dry clime that can supplant the South’s embarrassment of floral riches (although tulips might come close).
Now it’s time to bury the hatchet with Denver and make this The Year of Living in the Present, for my sake as well as that of the rest of the family (including a big-surprise newcomer, known in these quarters as “Thor” until we come up with a more suitable name, who is scheduled to arrive in October). It’s not healthy for me, or for Thor, or for anyone around me, to fail to forgive the circumstances that led to our being here. It’s time to let go.

As further proof of my being over it, I have done the one thing I swore I’d never do again: move. We’re still in Denver but in a working-class neighborhood with a less pricey ZIP code. We have a larger house that we can get for less money. We won’t be able to walk to school, and the architecture isn’t nearly as charming, but so what? It’s a practical move to a practical, good house.

It’s not always easy to stay in the present tense. So many boxes at the last house remained unpacked because there was too little space, and now I’m finding them and sorting through them. I found my daughter’s old homework folder from her beloved kindergarten teacher, who hugged me and cried when we had to move away. I found one of her old crafts from preschool, from the teacher she still talks about fondly all these years later, the one who shares my son’s birthday. Just a few small nips. But we pick ourselves on, dust ourselves off, and keep going. Not much else to do.