I am writing this from a silent house, about which are strewn the evidences of our life: books, toys, Christmas decorations, and boxes…OH, THE BOXES. They’re serving as tables, as props, as obstacles. They hold our life together and hold it up. I’m tired, displaced, overwhelmed, relieved. I’m here but not, there yet not quite. I’m in between. I’m all over the place.

I’m learning to recognise the triggers of anxiety and depression for me. Let’s see…there’s oxygen. That’s one. In addition, we have new experiences (some people call these adventures, and I will not be listening to their podcasts or reading their books right now, thank you). We have unfamiliar spaces. We have long to-do lists. WE HAVE MOVING. And we are in the midst of our third move in two years, living between two houses in Australia, one in America; living between two countries and continents and hemispheres. Living between two time zones and cultures and days, even.

When I put it that way–and look down at the ragged nails I have not had a chance to maintain this week (another trigger)–I’m pretty impressed that I haven’t caved in like a cardboard box. Yet.

At this point I feel compelled to make a disclaimer: that these are first world problems. That we have clean water. That we have hot water. That, hell, we have a water view. Still. That I’m stuck at the house for now instead of on a run because a cleaner is coming. That there is space aplenty, and health to enjoy it, together. That in some circles, I would be an asshole for not mentioning all of this earlier.

I don’t care. Hard is hard. We are blessed beyond measure and I can see that while also noticing the cracks in life, the rough spots that press my buttons (and mix my metaphors) and unsettle me, leave me adrift. One person’s complaining can be another person’s…telling. Relating.

So I’m sitting on a couch amidst a pile of boxes telling this story for all who have ever felt, who currently feel, adrift. Displaced. Unsettled. On the edge of a breakdown. Between homes.

In the middle of the mess and lack of landmarks, though, there are reminders. Evidences of life. There are the jacarandas outside, splatters of purple against the green of the trees and the blue of the water. Blue and purple: our wedding colours. The boys know the name for them now, these trees that pop up every spring, and this is evidence of life too: that first I had to learn what they were and name them, then I had to teach the boys, and now they tell me. There is the fact that The Kid lost a tooth this morning, his fourth, and what is typically a catastrophic event with trauma leading up to it and remaining after its exit, that event became a non-event: a tiny tooth dangling from a toothbrush and a hurried search for a container, an assurance that the Tooth Fairy knows our new address (see also: Santa), and proud announcements to friends at school. This process, in mouths and life, of soreness and struggle leading to letting go and new things. Growth. Ugh, and also…wow.

It’s been referred to as springs of water in the desert, this work of grace that makes something where there was nothing. I rely on it more than oxygen even as I doubt it, as I fear it has run out for good (spoiler alert: it hasn’t). But to me, lately, it feels different. It feels like there is already water, and I am floating on it, adrift always, in-between always. For while you’re on the water you’re always leaving one spot and headed to another, never fully stopped. Never seeming to be home. Not knowing where your damn running hat, or the wine opener, is.

But still, evidence of life. Of growth. Of spring in our former winter. For this is the time of year, traditionally now for us as we start the third one adrift, when we move. When we unpack. When we celebrate TK’s birthday. When we observe the Christmas season in a place where it is hot and doesn’t feel like Christmas. Where we are, quite literally, on the water.

Yesterday I walked the path from our new house to the reserve behind it, the harbour beach. I looked to my right at the dogs off-leash, running around freely. I looked to my left and saw a house. A house? A house on the water, with a porch and everything. Not everyone can get there–you must have the right transportation. In this case, a boat. It’s not for everyone, this water living, this floating existence. And yet here we are, living it.