I love that I can see mountains out of my bedroom window.  Rock Star mentioned when we first moved in that we will be able to see if the summit chair on Mt. Bachelor is running before we even get out of our pajamas, and if it is not, we can stay in our pjs and drink coffee all day instead of driving to the hill.

There are times, still, where this feels so surreal.  Even now, three months after moving, the birds sound wrong, although I love their songs.  I wake up to doves and a rooster down the street; sparrows that sound exactly like the text tone on my phone.  How odd.  I look around this beautiful house and wonder when the owner will be home, because I've certainly never owned anything this nice in my life.  I've spent the better part of my adulthood decorating in Early Single Mother, and Rock Star has always been more concerned with spending money on the things he wants to do instead of the place that he lives.  That is changing, though.  Whenever he is home, we are working in the yard, trying to get it ready for winter.  He built out the existing garden so it is twice the size, we've taken out half the lawn and most of the junipers, I put in new perennial plants, and just spent way more money than we should have on bulbs from Brecks.

Last week, after some of this hard work, I looked out the sliding glass door on to the porch and got a flash of belonging.  Just a flash, though.  I don't know what it will take to make this feel like home.  Maybe less brown.