It’s exactly two years now since I left my old home and moved into my new one, and I couldn’t be happier. It was a real wrench leaving my dear little house — I’d lived there since I was a young teacher — but it was in dire need of renovation. And after waiting for more than three years for the work to start, and finally realizing the builder wasn’t interested I changed my mindset of years—that I didn’t want to move, that I liked the location and the neighborhood and the neighbors—and in five days I’d found and bought this house.

Apart from being very happy in this new house, I realize I dodged a bullet. The builder who had been going to renovate my old house, started work the very morning after I moved, working for my next-door neighbor who’d bought my place. Ironic, isn’t it? They’re even using the same architectural draftsman who prepared the renovation plan for me.

I drove past the old house the other day and the renovations still aren’t finished. It could have been me, waiting for two plus years . . . 

Although I’ve settled in nicely, I still haven’t finished unpacking. It’s the books. I still have loads of books to go through and sort and cull, and that’s so hard. But bit by bit, box by box, I’ll get there. There’s no rush, after all.