I knew there would be a lot to get used to. A new job with new coworkers and personalities and tics to learn. A schedule that has me away from my partner, child, dog, chickens, and very comfortable bed for a full three days a week. Time with just myself, as my network in my new locale is nil; just a dear friend's parents, that I also selfishly needed to be away in order to caretake their home.
Being alone is maybe the second hardest part. I am incredibly social and getting "home" to an empty house has caused more than a few teary calls to Matt. But it is second to living out of a suitcase. How did the traveling salesman of old do it? I suppose Willy had the American Dream* to peddle, and may be I do too, just a little bit. But man, even with the best Eagle Creek suitcase, this packing up, unpacking, repacking routine almost makes me feel like I am living a double life, or only half existing. Almost.
While we await my more permanent living solution of our Kimbo 6 truck camper, I have been housesitting for a small group of very generous, very kind relative strangers. I am so humbled by their wish to help me essentially stay on my feet and embrace my weird plan. Via text, they check in on me, instantly making me feel less alone. They offer me meals and company when the are home. They assure me I will be taken care of. They offer me days to "watch" their homes that truly need no watching, but the make me the offer anyway and never make me feel like a burden. Sipping out of their assorted coffee cups each morning fills me with hope as much as the caffeine I need for the day ahead.
Today; I don't have much else to say, except I am incredibly thankful and awed by the grace of strangers.
*In this post I reference - Miller, Arthur. Death of a Salesman: Certain Private Conversations in Two Acts and a Requiem. Penguin Modern Classics, 2000.