Whenever I move houses – and I do so very frequently for professional reasons – I strive to turn my new place into a real home, my home, as quickly as I can. Last time around I set a new record: I finished the whole thing in just two days of intensive laboring – except for the last five percent. It’s the last boxes that don’t get unpacked. The one or two lamps that don’t get put up. The shoe cabinet that never gets assembled. I don’t know why. I always end up not finishing the last five percent.
A while back I wrote a post on my garden. My outer and my inner one. It had taken me years, decades actually, to realize that the state of my plants reflected my own emotional state. If my plants were in good shape, so was I. If they were miserable, so was I. It all came down to taking care of them and of myself. And I usually did both or neither. So I started using my outer garden as my personal alarm unit for my inner garden – and recently checked on it.
Some Saturdays are different. Today is one of those. It’s the second Christmas Eve I’m “celebrating” without what used to be my family. I’ve deliberately chosen not to take up an invitation to my best friend’s family party. I just felt like spending the day on my own, enjoying some me-time. As if it was just another Saturday. No different from any other Saturday.