I’m a mover. Not a shake my groove thang kind of mover (although in the privacy of my own living room, I’m that kind of mover, too). No, I’m an open up a map, close my eyes and see where my finger lands, kind of mover. From 1990-2000, I realized after the fact that I had picked up and moved every two years during that ten-year span. For the next ten years, I stayed in the same place. So in 2010, I was ready for some movin’.
Now, I don’t necessarily recommend upending your entire life and moving because you need a change, but I have also learned not to condemn myself for needing to do so every now and again. This was one of those times.
Chicago had felt right to me for a very long time. I loved being in a city where everything was happening. Being near the buzz felt exciting and held promise for lots of new opportunities. I fashioned myself a city girl and thought I’d never want to leave. And then I got the itch. It started small and began around the time we brought home our furry canine child (now 5). It grew stronger when our human child arrived three years ago. I had begun to notice the whole “city that doesn’t sleep” reality. (I know, it’s not New York, but I think most cities have this reality). Street lamps kept it light all day and all night (those blackout shades never quite shut out the light). Living near a busy intersection, we heard the hum of the buses all night long. On a quiet evening, we could even hear the “doors closing” announcement on the El, which was three city blocks away. I started to crave not only the quiet and the deep darkness of night, but feeling the grass underfoot (and not being completely grossed out that a barefoot walk might entail cigarette butts under my toes). I even had a weird urge to lay down in the grass to really sink in and let it envelop me, the way my daughter does now and the way I did when I was a kid. I needed a change.
The Pacific Northwest has called to me for a long time. In the mid-90’s when I graduated from college, I was among the throngs attracted to Seattle. I seriously contemplated a move then, but my meager teacher’s salary and solo romantic status made that move seem impossibly far and expensive. I kept it tucked away in the recesses of my mind, though, believing that someday, I’d be there.
Fast forward to the early 2000s when my then fiancee, now husband, and I visited Seattle for a friend’s wedding. We both knew then that we’d move here, we just weren’t sure when. Trading the Windy City for the Emerald City felt like a good move. Even though we’d be trading urban for urban, Seattle’s neighborhoods felt more like little green suburbs with sweet little green postage stamp lawns. It felt like breathing room.
Until it didn’t.
When our move looked like it would actually be a reality, we started to explore neighborhoods. As I usually do with a move, I researched neighborhoods and now as a homeowner and not a renter, I spent hours scouring real estate websites. And then I came across something interesting.
Just a 35 minute ferry ride across Puget Sound, due West, there is a lovely little island where people actually live and commute to downtown Seattle. Wha? Huh? It’s known for its scenic beauty, its tight-knit progressive community and its great public schools.
For reals?
My husband and I were married in a lovely pocket of Wisconsin, about four hours north of Chicago. We had always dreamed of living in a place like that, but lamented the fact that unless we were to run a B&B (not really a dream of ours), then it was unlikely that we would be able to manifest that dream. The kind of jobs we had weren’t exactly plentiful there. But...could this little northwest island be that dream realized?
Since I have already revealed that we live here on Bainbridge Island, I’ll spare you the story about visiting and deciding in about the first ten minutes that “yep,” this is it. Some decisions aren’t really decisions; you just know. But suffice it to say that somewhere along the decision-making process, we came to the conclusion that we didn’t just want to pursue outdoor activities on the weekends, we wanted to live them a day-to-day basis. We wanted our daughter’s “normal” to be climbing trees, collecting rocks and listening to bird songs. In the city vs. country argument, I fell on the side of believing that we could always cultivate in our daughter a love for and knowledge of culture and that this love could come now, or later in life. I believed in my heart (and still do), though, that there is a finite period of time a person has for a love of the natural world to seep into his or her bones. If you don’t grow up with it a part of your everyday life, I believe, you miss a window of time when it becomes part of you. You can appreciate it later in life, but it never reaches the deep parts where early memories are carved. Because we had a choice between the two, we chose to live in the country. For us, I am completely confident this was the right decision. Please don’t mistake this as a prescription for happiness, though. These are my beliefs, shaped by my personal needs and history, and are certainly not truth with a capital T.
So here we are. Here I am...about eight months after moving in the springtime. And I/we are totally in love. I would love to declare: “I’m home,” but my long history of moving has taught me that home has been (and may be?) many locations throughout my life. But let me just say: I’m in the home where I’d love to be for a great long while. There really has been no adjustment period in the sense of it feeling right or questioning our decision. We are exactly where we need to be in this moment in time.
My husband is the photographer in the family, and these days he takes a lot of photos on his phone. So, although I don’t have access to his really awesome shots, I will offer some that I’ve taken to give a little sense of why we are loving it here so much. I’m a visual person, so I think these will do a better job than I at highlighting just what it is that drew us here and continues to sustain us in our journey. This is not to say that we have found the place, as I recognize that this is our unique journey and not a declaration of having found nirvana. What I hope that it inspires, though, is an affirmation of your own decisions and a reflection of why the place you call home is just that. And, for those who don’t feel that connection to the place where they are, perhaps a little inspiration to seek out a new adventure.
This is what I had in mind.
Found sand dollars on the beach in the Spring. Had NO idea they existed outside Jersey Shore boardwalk shops.
On an evening walk, down the hill and around the corner from our house. Sally in foreground, Tierney in the background picking berries.
The Squirt, reporting to her favorite spot as the ferry boat departs the island, heading for Seattle.
Bainbridge Island's Harvest Fair, held annually. To me, this event was so quintessentially Bainbridge and captured everything I love about the island, that I wanted to cry with delight. I want to go back to being a kid, just so I can visit the Harvest Fair in my then self's shoes.
Late afternoon beach stroll.
Happy children on another afternoon outing.
Some friends took us east to their cabin for Memorial Day weekend. Love this action shot of Sally. It screams "freedom" to me.
Fall color outside our house. I was delighted by the number of deciduous trees that changed color. Prior to moving, I wrongfully assumed that the Fall wouldn't be as beautiful with all of the evergreen trees. I was happy to be proven wrong.
Tierney at preschool. Yes, Virginia, there is a preschool where you ride horses and swim every week. Nutballs!
The first snowfall of the Winter. Again, I wrongfully assumed I would have to bid adieu to the snow.
Next up: THE HOUSE.
