After 11 days of intense apartment searching, calling, viewing, and kissing a lot of toads, we finally found a place. (I’ll explain the move and what happened to the original place in another post. Bastards.) It’s not quite as posh as my condo (nothing will be short of winning the lottery), but at least I won’t burst into tears when I enter. Long story short, ninety percent of negotiations over financial issues have been completed – a few more hoops to jump through and the deal will be done. So thankfully, we don’t have to hit the panic button and discuss having an unexpected extended here with friends. While my friends have been beyond welcoming in their large comfortable home, I sorely need my own place. And Patty the pom back. (She’s staying with her foster parents in Michigan.)
So I’m standing on the very cusp of my new suburban life. But not being able to see forward in the metaphorical distance made me a bit nostalgic as I stood in the empty apartment gazing out the window at a prairie. Suddenly I realized that the hazy city horizon lie 26 miles away. After residing there all my life and living downtown for 25 years, it evoked a wistful yearning. I suppose it’s a kind of grief – an unwanted loss of part of my life.
It made me think of the following classic folk song that’s been stuck in my head. Oh Shenandoah describes a sense of longing for the past. One of my favorite burgeoning a capella YouTube singers, Peter Hollens, made a lovely rendition of the song. It’s a beautiful song which didn’t hold much meaning for me until now. Of course, I’ll get past this but for right now, I yearn for my own Shenandoah.