This is my first night in my new rental home.  This is my second move in a month and I think I can say with confidence that I have found my home.  (And I really don’t want to move again for a long, long time).

I constantly refer to this house as “The Scary House.”  When I first looked at it, I turned it down because it spooked me.  I thought it was haunted.  It gave me the weirdest gut feeling.  But six months later, I looked at it again and fell in love.

I realized it wasn’t the house itself that scared me, it was what it represented.  This is a grown-up home.  When I walk through the front door, I walk into the next part of my life, a part I have tried to avoid.  Six months ago, I wasn’t ready but now I am.  I am ready to move forward.  I think it was fate that it was still available when I needed it.

I now live in a neighborhood where every night people are out walking their dogs or riding their bikes or just going for a nighttime stroll.  All the neighbors know each other and the history of their homes.  My next door neighbor even brought me home-baked cookies as a welcome to the neighborhood.  And the best part is that my California sister is just down the street.

I am a little battered and bruised from the move–a metaphor for my life until this point.  The bruises will eventually heal.  It is going to take time for me to get this place in order but I look forward to the challenge.

So I guess I can positively say that for the first time since I moved back to Los Angeles, I finally feel like I am home.

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