Right now I am in awe of the layers of gorgeous that meet my eyes each day. The rolling brown hills with the majestic green trees set against the white-capped mountains. It is a feast for my eyes and I gobble it up. Right now I still get lost on the way to the grocery store. Right now I still have to think long and hard about which curve of the road to take on my run. Right now it still kind of feels like a long vacation.
As I drove in the waning sunlight and watched the sky turn all those colors skies turn as the sun says its last goodbye of the evening, I just cried. I cried because I really believe this could feel like home. And I so badly want it to feel like home, but I so badly want the people I love and miss to experience it with me. I thought about what I want to share with my friends, the runs I want to run with them and the laughs I want to laugh with them. I thought about what I want to show my nephews. But I don't want to show them on a visit. I want to experience it together as part of our lives.
But I can't have both. I can't have what I have here and what I miss there.
And that stings.
But, we love it here. We are thrilled we're here and love the mountains and the skiing/hiking/running and the proximity to nana and babu and the glorious weather. And we're going to give it a chance and live in the assumption that it's going to be our home and we're going to find another group of people to love and be loved by. It won't be a new group because our friends cannot be replaced, but I have to be okay adding to my tribe, too.
I'm running a 3 mile fun run on Thanksgiving. My first time running with other people since moving away from my many running friends. (Please, sweet Jesus, let it be relatively flat and oxygenated so I don't vomit in front of strangers.) We're visiting a few homeschool co-ops the week after Thanksgiving. We continue to look for a church home.
We're making our way.
We're making it.