A few days ago, as I looked around to the house where we are living now, a wooden cabin in a nature reserve, I suddenly missed having a “home”. As in a more or less permanent place.
I realized that we have been living among suitcases and boxes for months.
In fact, as I think about it, we have been living like nomadic gypsies for two years and a half. Since January 2020 to be more precise.
The longest that we have been in the same place has been 4 months. Enough to unpack most of the things, but still not enough to make the place “our home”.
Only since the last summer 2021, we have been living in eleven different places. Nearly one move per month. And the count goes up to more than twenty since we left for the sabbatical in January 2020.
Being a home animal, it is no wonder that I have started to miss having a more or less permanent place that we can call home; finally take our clothes from the organizers; set-up a proper office -with books on shelves instead of inside a samsonite trolley-, and decorate it with the very few personal things that we brought with us.
So, the last days I have devoted myself in body and soul to (1) identifying with Frank where we wanted to live from September onwards and how, (2) what could be the plan B and C if A did not work and, once we had set a course, (3) putting a message to the Universe that we were on the look for a long term rental.
I cannot say it loud enough. We have been extremely lucky.
A house that fulfilled almost all our requests (which were quite some) was announced a couple of days later.
And, despite there were other interested parties, we got it! So, from the first of September we will finally have a long-term rental home. I cannot express how happy we are with the prospect of finally having a place, where we can both have our own working/hobby room and where we can finally empty the suitcases and boxes and settle. At least for now.