It occurred to me to check the other day how long I’ve been writing here. Turns out, it’s been eight years today. 2,922 days.
When I started, the house was over there, up the hill, an arm’s reach from the road. (That’s a picture of it, up there, the way it was when we moved in.)
That road, when we first moved here, was quiet. On our commute to work every day, we might be joined by one or two other cars. Many nights, on the way home, the road was ours alone.
Eventually, traffic picked up, the road got louder, and we decided either we had to move, or the house had to move (knowing full well that the road had already moved once in its history and was not likely to do so again in our lifetime).
So we moved the house. And began writing here.
When I started, H was just about finished with Kindergarten. In a week-and-a-half, she’ll be a high schooler.
When I started, I was in my first year working for myself, and wondering if it was possible to make a living that way. I guess I’m still wondering that.
When I started, I borrowed H’s point-and-shoot camera to take the pictures.
When I started, I barely knew what a blog was, and social media wasn’t yet a thing. I just wanted a way to easily share the status of our house move with our far away family and friends.
And here I am, eight years later, still writing.
And even though a lot of big things have changed, most of the essential stuff hasn’t. It’s still the three of us against the world, with a pack of animals to amuse us. The waterfall below the house still roars all night and all day. The house is still unsquare and uneven. We make chaos in the kitchen, spending days to make a feast that takes less than an hour to consume. And we enjoy the heck out it. We shop at the local food co-op, which we joined the first morning we lived here. We gather with family and friends for holidays and birthdays. We make messes, come up with grand plans, fall asleep on the sofa on a hot Saturday afternoon, and, for some reason, I write about it here.
I don’t fully understand why.
I don’t really know what this place is. It’s not a house renovation blog, or a food blog, or a farm blog, or a mommy blog, or a poet’s blog, or a photographer’s blog, or any of those things. It’s me, and us, our lives, what I’m thinking (or worrying) about today. What I saw today. What I read, or wrote, or liked.
It’s an eight-year-old, interested in language and pictures and making things, but, like me, not yet settled into what it wants to be when it grows up.
It seems a silly thing to mark this day, but why not? Marking time. Observing the moment. This is what we do.