Home is where the little house is.

I bought this little key "holder" a very long time ago.  It was during my second semi-permanent stay in San Francisco.  At the time I was living in the Pacific Heights neighborhood, which although a bit snobby, specially for the city, is a great residential neighborhood, as it is quiet, safe, and beautiful.
There was a cool little store on Fillmore street, a stretch known for its great boutiques and cafes.  This particular one offered artisan artifacts from all over the world, and most everything was very decently priced, which allowed my fresh out of college wallet to acquire a few things there at the time.
This particular item was just precious to me.  The colorful little house reminded me so much of the traditional little wood cottages that you find all over the country back home.  The coconut or palm trees in the background, and the plantain or banana leaves on the side were a bonus bringing me even closer to the island.  Plus, it would help me place my keys at the same place everyday, so I could be a bit better organized (for those of you who know me well, rather important, if not indispensable). Sold.  The little house's first home was on Webster street, between Jackson and Pacific.  It went up on the wall by the door, without consulting my boyfriend at the time, with whom I lived.  When I moved to the Dominican for my kind of sabbatical year in 2003, the little house rested in a box. In late Spring of 2004, it was unpacked, and one of the first things to be hung up in my new home, at Bush and Leavenworth.  Two years later, back in a box.
 When my husband and I moved in to our first home together, the little house was once again on the wall, without consulting it's placement with my partner.  I remember him asking me: "Are you sure that's where that goes?".
As usual, I had some perfect argument at the tip of my tongue, probably consisting of too many words spoken way too fast, which just settled it without further discussion.  He always tells me that I should have been a lawyer.
  Two years later, back in a box.  At our next home,  our awesome grungy wood paneled sublet on Prince Street, in Boston, there was already a little key hanger thing on the wall.  The little house remained in storage in North Carolina until we found our second apartment there, on Moon street.  Once again, it was one of the first things to go up.
 A few days ago, as I spent the afternoon packing everything we own into our old boxes, I noticed how bright the little house looked being the only thing left on our walls.  I realized, it is not only one of the first items that finds a home in every one of our new homes, it is also, one of the last ones, if not the last one, to go into a box.  Something about it comforts me.  It might be the colors, as I am a colorful individual by nature.  It might be the feeling of walking in the door and seeing something ours, instead of just plain wall, any one's wall. 
It might -I must admit- have something to do with keeping something organized in the chaos that is"boxville" (as we call the last and first days of a move).  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it's a lot more simple than that.  To me, home is where the little house is.
  In the midst of this particular move, even though we are technically returning home, as San Francisco, is to both my husband and I, our adopted, beloved home, I have felt an awful lot of turmoil inside my heart and mind.  We hadn't found a place to move into until last Saturday, and we need to be out of this place by next Friday.  The uncertainty of  "what the fuck are we going to do" was slowly eating me alive, and although I pretty much just went through another style of the same uncertainty with my job hunt, this time it was a bit more pressing.
 All of our stuff, my husband and I, and our cat, would have nowhere to go if we didn't find a new place.  Sure we have plenty of friends and loved ones where to crash, but with a thirteen year old grumpy cat, it's a little hard to stay on someones floor.  Feeling that we didn't really belong here anymore,  but we didn't have anywhere else where we belonged, was making me feel a little homeless.  The little house on the wall, as soon as I walked in the door, made me feel that I was still home.
I have been having a very hard time with this move.  As many of my loved ones have pointed out to me : it's our city, it's our baby, we're going home.  Yes, it's true.  However, I just wasn't ready for it.  I was, very ready, and very happy, to be back in California.  But I also was very ready, and very happy, to finally be in a small town.  To have space in our home, for everything to have a place, to have a yard, a peaceful haven to come home to every day, to garden, to sit under that majestic oak tree and just be.  City life is loud, and it's dirty, and it's sad, with countless homeless people roaming the streets and begging for money. You can't hear the crickets, you can't see the stars, the only birds around are pigeons.  I was ready for a break from all of that. Last night, as I heard the crickets singing outside our window, tears slowly felt out of my eyes.
 After going back and forth in my mind and my heart, I finally decided that our plants will stay here.  The tomato, pepper and herbs, will never survive in the city.  Not only do we not have any outside space other than the fire escape, and it will be breaking the lease to have plans on it, but the temperature and the lack of consistent sunlight will not be kind to my potted plants.  I decided I would rather give them away, with the time, love and money I spent on them, and know that they will live, be happy, and fulfill their purpose of feeding someone as well as bees and other creatures, than bring them with me, and potentially watch them die.
 Maybe this whole experience was a lesson in non attachment.  In impermanence.  Maybe, even though I think I am ready for this lifestyle, it's just not my time yet.  And perhaps all of it happened to shake my core again, and remind me that being present is not only about the present, but about the past and future as well.  It is about letting go as much as it is about being here now.
 In letting go of this wonderful place and the experiences I lived through here, I am once again practicing being present in the moment.  It was wonderful, but I shall not dwell on it. For now, it is over, and other beautiful experiences await on the other side of the Golden Gate.  On Friday, when all the boxes are in our new apartment, on Bush and Jones, I will carefully unpack the little house, and find it its new piece of wall, where it shall once again, be home.  My husband and I, are blessed enough to have each other. We will live there together, and we will be home as well, where the heart, and the little house are.