In the Village

"Partir, c'est mourir un peu"
This saying is particularly dear to me. I have experienced its truth and wisdom so many times....leaving is dying a little bit indeed.
And this time was no different.

We had known for a while now that we had to leave our lovely soft loft in Hyde Park, acquired three years ago in this exhilarating feeling of pride of excitement that only belongs to first time home buyers. We spent days choosing the color of the walls - County Cork and Stadium Red - and long hours of intensive painting, precariously balanced on a always too short ladder. I was most of the time by myself, inhaling fumes, singing aloud, elated to at last cover the white that had been an irremovable part of my life for far too long.

We lived, laughed, loved, received my mom for two visits, welcomed a dog, a second cat and got married in that same place.
That was home.

But it was not meant to last. And there is no need to feel bad, have regrets or lament endlessly about the situation. Four walls, a couple of bedrooms and a nice kitchen are not enough to define one's living, and certainly not mine. I moved more times that I care to recall - the actual count amounts to 19 - and it has become a normal part of life. Not quite a routine, but quite close. Always on the search, always on the go.
The fact that, this time, was imposed on me for trivial financial reasons doesn't change anything to the game.

In April I only had one word on my mind: next.

A tad obsessive I spent hours hunting for the elusive 'perfect' place that would offer a dishwasher, a washer/dryer, central air, enough room to fit the knick-knacks amassed in five years of ups-and-downs, and enough flexibility to allow our three balls of fur to follow us on this new journey.
I had decided that I didn't want to settle; no 'just-to-get-by' place; no compromise.

I wanted a home to replace the one we were about to lose.

And after countless emails, phone calls, last minute cancellation and visits - I found it.
I loved it right away.
Home at fist sight.

42 days in, and I realize that I have never felt any better in a place. True, I now have to climb three flights of stairs, park my car on the street and make do with an AC daily defeated by the scorching hot Chicago summer. Sure, the new dishwasher fits about a third of the dirty plates, silverware, pots and glasses than the previous one, and I quit doing sets of jumping jacks, running in circles after the dog as well as improvising stumping dance movements to accompany my favorite commercials out of respect for my downstairs neighbors.

But I gained so much more.
A large, open deck where I grow my own herbs and salsa vegetables.
A palpable place in this city life that I yearned for since I moved out from downtown five years ago.
A partaking in a lively neighborhood that I slowly get to know a bit more with every passing day, along with its people, tree-lined streets, parks, landmarks and rituals. A vibrant diversity that I only associated with my old 'hood and that I am so thankful to find here, patiently waiting for my unveiling.

But first and above all this move - that made me die inside a little bit more than usual - has brought me a serenity and a sense of fulfillment that took me by surprise. I certainly didn't expect to feel happy so fast, without even trying. You are supposed to work on these things, right? And keep trying hard at it. It usually just doesn't fall on your lap, or tout rôti dans le bec (already roasted in your mouth...hehehe...my likey).
Wrong.
It does.
And it does every SINGLE time.

I am lucky to not have to slave every day at work from 9 to 5. At least, despite the lack of regular income, I take it as a privilege. And this summer, being able for the first time to focus on the little things of life and not on the coming along of my dissertation, care-free, I just enjoy. Feel. Watch. Think. Socialize.

How to explain that I owe it all to the Village? I can't. But I know that its magic worked on me, and that it's now only up to me to keep its spell alive.

The old saying is all wrong. Leaving is, in fact, being born again.