Wow. I just left the keys on the counter of my old apartment and shut its door for the last time.  I lived there for four years–longer than I’ve lived anywhere other than the two houses I grew up in.  From the time I graduated high school until I moved to that fourth-floor walkup, I was on an almost-yearly moving schedule, packing up dorm rooms and apartments and unpacking in new ones as milestones were reached: college graduation, dental school acceptance, friends’ weddings.  Three of my roommates in Alabama moved out on me to get married, and I threw more than one temper tantrum with God over that pattern.  But now that milestone is mine, and I’m sitting in a studio apartment that is packed to the gills with mine and the BF’s earthly possessions.  And I only climbed one flight of stairs to get here!

After fifteen years of Temporary Living, I’m just now beginning to realize the ramifications of settling down.  The other night I was trying to fall asleep when my mind decided against that prospect and instead began to review all the decisions that we’ve made recently.  The BF was offered, and accepted, an amazing job in Atlanta.  Then I was approached by a pediatric dentist there who is interested in bringing someone new into her now-solo practice to eventually take over.  The next day, we put down a security deposit on our (hopefully) last stop in apartment living, a six-month rental that will buy us time to pick out a house.  For God’s sake, I even admitted that I may one day capitulate to driving a minivan!  Who is this person and what did she do with the perpetually single girl I used to know?

We are putting down roots.

There were a lot of things I swore I’d never do before I was married, but that was back when I was a kid who studied spelling words in her free time.  Sweeping promises were easier to make.  Now I’m cohabiting with my fiance–broken rule.  Then again, I’m living on Lexington Avenue in New York City, my home for the past five years.  And I’m marrying a Californian.  So I’ve grown accustomed to coloring outside those pre-planned lines.  Now I’m ostensibly leaving my full-of-surprises, day-to-day city life for a calmer pace.  As I wandered aimlessly around the West Village today (lie; I was actually headed straight to Magnolia Bakery for a cupcake), I considered that there may be a time soon when I can’t take the long way home because my time will not be just mine.  That’s a little scary.  But what is NOT scary is how I get to share the space of forever with my best friend; how our books are side-by-side on the bookcase now (finance squeezed in between volumes of chick-lit); how we get to call this place, and every one after it, “home” starting today.

I took the day off to recover from moving…by eating cupcakes…and this morning was the first time in a week that I’ve felt life slow down to the point where I could catch my breath and remember what it feels like to pray while sitting still.  Not a second too soon. My real Home enveloped me and began to speak to my heart of all the life that’s been occurring underneath the surface of wedding plans, career changes, and moving dates.  As he so often does, he opened my eyes: to the attempt at emotional connection behind a joke; to the amount of sadness a person must be facing to hurt others; to the steady yet at times imperceptible-to-me movement of his hand in every piece of my life.  I realized that I only think I know what lies ahead; he is already there.  He dwells in my days, and not under a rental agreement.  He has settled down.  Now I can too.