The notion of having, one day, our own place is occupying more space in my brain lately. All this gardening going on around me is probably why. The metaphor of lengthening, anchoring, sprawling roots is obvious. It'll feel so good to live in a way that isn't tentative or temporary.
Also, because I have a ridiculous amount of book reports from third grade and every photograph I ever took and every book I've ever read, it will be fun to have it all unpacked (or at least a designated storage home) and together under one roof, because our belongings are officially spread between three roofs (and maybe more, who knows). And let me tell you, books are a bitch to move. And it's worse when we BOTH like books, so there are twice as many. I know I've written about this before, but since 2002 I have moved 13 times. THIRTEEN. Of course, this included college which is highly transitory anyway. But still. You get good at moving books. Free tip: pack them in small boxes. I know that means a LOT of small ones instead of less big ones, but your back will thank you. Your arms and shoulders and knees will appreciate it as well.
Point: one day I would like to unpack all my books in built-in bookshelves with a rolling ladder, for easy access when I want to take one to read out on the front porch, possibly in a porch swing, definitely with a gin & tonic. I would also like to take our food scraps out to the compost bin after dinner (eaten at our hypothetical dining room table, with a dinner party of friends, with our wedding dishes currently in hibernation), and weed my vegetable garden to my heart's content, knowing that if something turns out pear-shaped I'll have many more summers to practice. A bonus might be nice neighbors to share all the harvest with, too.
I feel old when I say this, but I want to just settle. Stay put for enough time to care about the walls we'll paint, to gut the bathroom that needs redoing, and generally putter about the house. I look forward to puttering.