Eight (8) Years

We moved into our home in Santa Fe 8 years ago this week. Eight. We did not have a cake but we did go out to dinner to celebrate at a great restaurant downtown. A treat.

Two people did not even exist eight years ago -- my soon to be five year old granddaughter and her baby brother, not quite two yet. Whole new people arrived in the world since we made our move. These are them.

And here we are, eight years in our home.

We found a southwestern pueblo style house we love on our second visit to the area to house hunt. We sold our Connecticut home of 13 years, a new build that we made our own and a garden I created from scratch from a builder's half acre lot. I loved that home. I loved that experimental garden. I left it with no regrets.

I created a garden here in the dry southwest at almost 7,000 feet elevation in a small courtyard and it's frustrating and rewarding to see it evolve fitfully. So fitfully.

We met and befriended delightful neighbors, I've made a few very good friends, I joined a stimulating bookgroup I love, I've had nice gardening encounters at the botanical garden and in the neighborhood and I feel so settled here. We've hosted visitors, enjoyed the museums and operas and markets and restaurants (!) and we've hunkered down in our home too. 

How did eight years escape me so quickly? How did I land in the place I was meant to be? How will I keep living here as I age and decline?  

Eight years. I turn 76 this month. Do I have eight more years to enjoy here in my Santa Fe casita and courtyard garden? 

Or more maybe?