Here I Am

On my return to Colorado a month ago, a friend gave me a mirror compact with the words, “Here I am,” on the front. I think those words often. Here I am, in sight of the Rocky Mountains. Here I am, home again. Here I am, in the same neighborhood, in the same house, in the same room. It’s surreal being here after almost four years in Seattle. I feel like Rip Van Winkle waking up from his sleep. The world around me is so familiar, and yet, oddly altered, as if I spent the last four years in a dream.

Around the house, little things have changed. My office now has to accommodate the trappings of Palimpsestic—supplies, completed art, photography props, and shipping materials. I’m daydreaming of having a work table in here, something I never considered when the space was just used for reading and writing. Our dining nook, once a toddler’s play area, is currently lined with roleplaying books and board games. Games were our primary source of entertainment in the rainy Northwest and our collection exploded while we were out there. And of course, we now have a ten-year-old instead of the six-year-old with whom we left. His bedroom looks undeniably tweenish, with no hint of the baby who once lived here.

We’ve been repainting. The renters we had in the house didn’t share our aesthetic. They toned down a lot of our bright, saturated colors and, I’ll admit, I may have overcompensated a bit by painting the downstairs bathroom a deep, koi orange. I don’t care. I love it.

I’ve had contractors doing estimates on this and that every week since we moved back. It’s almost like moving into a new house, rather than returning to one we built thirteen years ago. Our nest has been disturbed and we’ve been fluttering around in a tizzy trying to set it to rights.

Before we left Seattle, I told my husband, “We’re not moving back. Not really. We’re moving forward to a familiar place.” When I said it, I didn’t realize how true it would be. Too much has changed to just slot in where we left off, but I’m comforted by the things that are the same—the quality of the sunlight on the mountains, the neighbors drinking wine on their front porch, the gaming group’s inside jokes, the Starbucks barista who still remembers my name. Here I am, surrounded by the landscape and people I love. I am here.