We're home.

There is so much to learn. So much work to do. I wake up and tell myself I should water the plants before work, because I have a yard now, with hanging flowers and raspberry bushes and leaves climbing up the lattice next to the patio. I go to my new job at my new office and learn names, programs, routines that are completely unfamiliar. I come home and unpack boxes, look for sales on furniture, have conversations with Murdo that start off with "We should ..." followed by a task like "paint the walls gray" or "string twinkle lights in the backyard" or "buy a runner for the entryway." 

 

I've been thinking a lot about work lately, and the amount of work that goes into anything in order to make the final product something to be proud of. A clean, comfortable home requires the know-how and tools for constant upkeep; a stunning photograph comes from years of practice, trial and error, learning how to properly compose and expose a shot; a meal worth writing home about often involves careful ingredient selection, chopping, peeling, boiling, sauteeing. 

 

 

Nothing of value is simply conjured from thin air. Those images posted on Pinterest of perfect homes, perfect weddings, perfect plates of food -- they work just fine for inspiration's sake, but they don't tell the story of the work that took place behind the scenes in order to make the dream a reality.

It's one thing to look at an image and sigh and wish that you had that life. It's something else entirely to tackle a project, get messy and sweaty and frustrated and determined, to complete it with your own two hands and look at the finished product and sigh and know that your hard work paid off. 

We're not there yet. We won't be for a while. But I'm ready to learn.