Going back to an empty house for a final look is tricky business. It is important to keep emotionally divorced and focused on the task at hand, systematically going through each room with a critical eye. I find that even in writing about it, I need to stay removed from the sentimentality I could so easily apply to each room and area that we worked so eagerly to make our own in the six years we lived on Shelborne Ct.
This weekend, when we went back to collect the items that the movers wouldn’t take, our time was very short. I think we’d planned it that way purposely. We left here just after lunch on Saturday so by the time we hit Newport News, the east bound traffic was already building to its ugly summertime self extending the last twenty miles of our trip by an extra forty five minutes. This, coupled with the general Kempsville weekend traffic as we slugged our way from the interstate to the house reminded us how quickly we’d become accustomed to our new rural routine.
By the time we reached the house, we were running late for our dinner plans so we divided and conquered – Dave took the garage and I took the inside of the house. My room by room eval went well. I even discovered a fudge pop in the freezer! I gathered the remaining cleaning and forgotten items and helped load the car. I was doing just fine until I opened the back gate to toss my Popsicle stick in the garbage when it hit me.
Opening that gate into the yard we’d transformed from a patchy lawn rutted with dog trails into a lush, shady outdoor escape, was easy. It was closing it for the last time that was tough. I’d become so attached to each plant and blade of grass, so connected to the earth itself. We invested so many hours of preparing the soil, planting each perennial, bulb and shrub. We weeded. We cultivated. We watered. In return we were rewarded with year-round beauty which we anticipated with the enthusiasm of young children counting down the days before Christmas. Each new green sprout and flower bud was worthy of dinner conversation. It was our yard that rooted us to our home because it was what connected our home to God. Saying goodbye to that connection was tough.
Driving back the next day, the traffic stayed behind us as as we drove further and further west. Turning off the interstate onto Rt. 33, we drove the last twenty miles to our new home through the green landscapes that are now a part of our everyday life. With the Blue Ridge mountains peeking between the breaks in the trees and the endless green around us, I feel the tingling of new roots beginning to sprout. We have a new patch of green behind our home waiting for tending. Each season will bring new sprouts and opportunities for connection to creation. And so it begins.