Joys of Moving. Or the Tragedy of not being able to locate the Coffee Mugs.

Oh if I had a dollar for all the times I have uttered: "It's in a box somewhere."...

My Darling Husband has been ordained.  Together we have embarked on a new adventure: living and thriving in rural North Dakota.  We now live in a community of 250, and we are their newest plus 2.

I am sure, gentle readers, that our new small town and our living here will be the subject of many blog postings to come.  For now, a couple of thoughts about relocation.

Generally, I hate it.

Or, more positively, it's not my favorite thing.  My family moved often when I was a kid, and "it's in a box somewhere" might just have to appear on my family crest.  Every time I utter it now, I still shudder with the chill of uprooted-ness.  I like feeling rooted, settled, and comfortable.  I am trying, with my Darling Husband's urging, to embrace the gypsy-spirit of moving.  He craves the newness and the stacked boxes do not seem to faze him.  Each box still packed gives me a queasy, anxious feeling as if their fullness might devour me.

I am trying.  And I am finding small ways to make myself more comfortable.  Like packing the coffee- pot and bean-grinder along for one of our first trips to our new house.  They were like a familiar friend sitting next to me on the seat, enjoying with me the sunflower streaked roads which wound round to our new home.

Now if only I could locate my coffee cups.