I recently moved. Again. Yes, again. We just moved 14 months ago to a little rental house we liked but didn't love, so when the landlord decided he wanted to sell it, we told him we weren't interested in buying it. We then found another house, and moved. We're getting fairly good at it. Boxes, boxes, boxes. Hidden expenses, bills, more boxes, and tape, tape, tape. Don't forget the bubble wrap.
It's done now. Except that it's not. My former landlord still has my deposit. I left his house in impeccable shape - floors clean enough to eat from, windows washed inside and out, with only the slightest hints of any wear or tear. Yet he expected it back brand new. He's clearly crazy. And now he's haggling. My real estate agent is incensed and dealing with him. I'm om shanti-ing my way through many days telling myself to let it go, let it go, what happens will happen. Crazy man won't win. Justice will prevail. We'll get our money back. This is a First World problem. We have our health. We have each other. We have moved on. Om. Om.
One week later, much of the unpacking has happened. Our daughter is getting used to her huge pink princess dream room. The cat's panic level has decreased along with her generally annoyed attitude. My husband is off to Asia on a business trip. And I am left with...boxes. Clearly we'll be watching more Dora and Mickey this month than is usually allowed. But that's just fine. Another First World problem.
This morning, I woke to the sounds of birds singing. Not the sounds of traffic like I used to hear at the old house. Birds. Chirping birds, frolicking in my tree, in my new yard, the yard without the ill-maintained pool or the poorly landscaped yard. The yard I see when I open my eyes to another great day in what most can consider paradise. First World birds of paradise. Om.