Moving into moving

One of the most challenging parts of my divorce is leaving my home.

I love the South End.  I love my condo perched on the edge of the neighborhood.  Despite being on Mass Ave, with its cacophony of sirens and car horns and drunk people yelling after midnight, its tumbleweeds of litter and spirals of exhaust, our condo was a source of peace and joy: spacious for the city, with a large deck and an abundance of windows and light.  I never got over the thrill of living in the South End, land of brownstones, bakeries, and all-around urban beauty.

I moved last Friday to live with a friend for a time in Medford, near the campus of Tufts.  It couldn't be more different: suburban, silent, a lovely freestanding home with a basement and a backyard.  I put my "stuff" in storage and moved in with only my clothes,  and without one thing that most people who live in Medford consider a necessity: a car.  Spoiled by the easy walk-ability and the constancy of my neighborhood's trains and buses, I will now be cultivating patience and impeccability with regards to time, with buses that run only thrice hourly during rush hour, less frequently otherwise.  I bought a backpack; I am considering taking Bicycling for Dummies lessons.

Signs of spring are beginning to appear and the backyard will soon be awash in color, fresh leaves, and birds.  This quiet and gentle place, this new beginning, will help me get clear on what I will create in the next phase of my life.