Here is Home, home is here

It has been a week, in the new Tiny House. Meanwhile . . . we have had fall, early winter, and Indian summer. The leaves peaked and are now falling. Profusely, in great piles, in a lush carpet, in a crunchy substrata, a golden blanket. Right now it looks like Oregon, with a light rain falling against a background of tall pointed pines. From my writing desk I can gaze out onto the back decks and across to my daughter’s house. to her cozy kitchen with glass sliding doors where she is arranging flowers picked up early this a.m. from a wholesaler. The baby naps.

We are slowly settling into a routine of domesticity. Nevertheless, each night as I climb the ladder up to my sleeping loft I can’t get over that I’m in my own place.

Already I have gotten mail—the first sign I am in residence, that I am here. That here is home.