We moved about a year ago, and this is part of the view we left behind. We knew at the time it was the right thing to do: the kids were grown, the taxes were high, and all our savings were tied up in the house. I was desperate for a studio, and we knew we wanted to live closer to town.
So we hunted and hunted -- for over a year -- for a home we could imagine living in; for something so close to right for us that we could bear to part with this view. When we found our next home (and we knew it as soon as we saw it) it came as a surprise: not a shingled beach cottage, but a log cabin in the woods.
It was lovely in its way: a beautiful park-like setting with a graciously rustic interior and a glorious studio, and very close to town so we knew we could make it work. But what about the light? All those tall cedars meant no more sunsets, no more moonrises... no real way of knowing til the middle of the day whether it was actually a sunny day or not. Would we regret our choice in the dead of winter?
Now a year has passed, and I'm browsing through my photos to see what to publish today, and this one sings to me. So I have to ask: is this a song of regret? I can't deny that this photo makes me ache a bit for what we left behind. And I must admit that there were days -- in the rainiest winter on record here -- when I desperately missed the light we had before.
But now is now, and we've been happy here. It's a new life, to be sure, but we're building it together; finding shared interests, becoming more interdependent, and filling the house with friends and love. So when I look at this photo I smile, because that was then, and it was wonderful: we were lucky to live that life. But now is wonderful, too, in its own way; full of joy and creativity -- and so it's without regret that we can smile upon the past. We're in a new phase now, and it's all good.
