Is there a point that we arrive at in our lives where a sensation of too much wanting and too general a dissatisfaction with the state of things as they are in one moment inexplicably changes, and causes us to stop and reflect, take stock, and come to the realization that forever worrying about what we don't have and what we want prevents us from enjoying life as it happens? My younger years were spent in that way, after innocence wore off and appreciation of the material world came to the fore: I wanted the world and everything in it. Simply put. In so doing, I didn't realize I was setting myself up for failure.

I have heard it said that wanting is a good thing, "for it is wanting that keeps us alive"; only now I disagree. More likely than not I will never be a multi-millionaire who jet-hops the world following the summers.  It is unlikely that I am going to figure on Forbes lists or be rated by Mr. Blackwell for my wardrobe. I don't anticipate a Park Ward Rolls Royce in my driveway with a liveried chauffeur waiting to drive me anywhere. The realization that these things are improbable is no longer a keen source of frustration to me. Somehow and in someway a change has occurred in me. I discovered a way to peace. I changed my way of thinking, and that has changed my life.

Living through the experience of losing  a home to the wrecking ball has perhaps affected me more than I thought. I don't know today if my old home is still standing, and I'm afraid to drive to the old neighborhood to see. My mother and I drove out  recently, to transport some more of the landscape plantings to our new home and to collect the granite rocks I had made borders with in the old garden: they've found a new home in Haymont and look as if they've been here forever. I remarked to her that I felt as if this house had been waiting for us; and if a house truly has a spirit, then I think I've made friends with this one. With the boxes from moving finally cleared out and familiar objects arranged around me, I feel at home again.

It was almost impossible to move all of the plantings from our old home to our new one. A hydrangea too cumbersome to be moved in a sedan had to be sacrificed, but we were determined that it would not die in vain. Standing in the hot, humid yard, my mother cut its branches and placed them in a bucket of water, preserving its blooms, which we brought home to Westmont Drive.  The flowers cheer us and remind us that sometimes it is the simplest of things which can bring light and quality to our lives: a moment to stop and see their blossoms, to remember their blooming in previous years, and celebrate them in the moment, not thinking of what was or what we wish yet to be, enjoying only our now.