|Taken the morning we left Boston, headed to the airport.|
We're here in Tucson, and have been for a week. I'm beginning (we're all beginning) to acclimate. That first day, my heavens, was so disorienting. I started the day in the heavy, vibrant, humid green of a New England summer, and it seemed like I blinked and by afternoon I was here, in the middle of the desert, and all of the Summer green was delicate and dry. It felt like my entire previous life had vanished, like I wasn't sure it had ever happened at all.
|taken yesterday, on a walk. you see what i mean by contrast?|
|big western sky, mountains|
|just outside my mother-in-law's front door.|
They jumped up in a tree and swatted at each other from various branches. They chased each other between deck chairs and strutted their stuff around the potted plants. We watched them play and lounge while we ate dinner, and it suddenly seemed like this place was just fine. That this place was maybe even marvelous. And that we hadn't made a mistake after all.
Some of these pictures are from a few days later when their mama came too, but the truth is that I was having the same sort of feeling on the day she arrived with her babies. It seems like every time I'm discouraged or feeling displaced, they show up. She's so beautiful; they're all so beautiful. I love the markings on her legs and belly. I love the babies' little tails and pointy black and white ears. I think maybe I'm supposed to be frightened of them. My mother is worried they'll haul off Henrietta while we're not watching. But we stay on this side of the glass and make no attempts to interact with or bother them, and for some reason I'm not at all worried. Instead, I'm grateful. I think I've seen them three times, and every time they've healed an ache in me.
We have a lot to work out here. We're still very much in transition, and will be for some time. There's a lot that's uncertain, a lot I worry over. (Namely, our buyers dropped out four days before we moved, so we're still paying a mortgage. Ugg.) But I'm remembering this is what helps me whenever I move: I attach to the landscape, the new animals and plants, the beauty I've yet to grow so used to that I don't see anymore. And then I'm okay. I look up at the enormous sky and picturebook clouds and blue outlines of mountains and towering saguaro cacti, the lizards and jack rabbits and orioles and cat families out the back window, and then I'm better than okay. I'm hopeful. I'm happy. I'm here.