I realized today that I haven’t written on the topic of “moving” in a while. Over two months, in fact.
In large part, this is because I feel like I’m no longer in the process. I’m no longer “moving.” I “have moved.” The experience is now in present perfect tense.
The apartment is settled. Alexander and I have a routine. I have more or less figured out the rail system.
I have work that keeps me both occupied and (more importantly) paid. I also enjoy it, which helps.
That work has introduced me to a number of fun and interesting people I genuinely look forward to seeing.
And, in perhaps they greatest development of all, there’s karaoke every Wednesday night at a bar five minutes from my apartment.
I may not have Mother Bear’s pizza to comfort me on those cold, Midwestern nights. Or the Bloomington Playwrights Project to poke my head into when my afternoon leaves me with a few minutes to spare. Or — most dishearteningly — an army of adolescents willing to feed our cats while we’re out of town.
But it’s home. I feel home.