good medicine

The beautiful and often overgrown herb garden, the one that Hiro our dog protected so well, is now only a memory. It’s been pulled up because we are moving to a new house, and the spinach, kale, collards, chard and mustard greens I planted in August are all that remain. In a few days, the greens will be pulled up too. I gave away the bulk of my herbs to a local restaurant, earning myself and my husband an invitation for a free meal, and am drying what was left on homemade drying racks, perched high above on the top of the kitchen cabinets of the rental house.

 The escrow on our new house closed earlier this week, and I’ve spent two long days since sealing the grout on the floor, showers, and the brick on the kitchen backsplash. Today I’m recovering, and as I sit and type on our laptop computer in the empty kitchen, waiting for some cabinet repairmen to touch up a few glitches in the new cabinets, Hiro paces and whines nervously around his new inside digs and backyard domain. It’s obvious he doesn’t know what to think, and I’m sure there’s a little loop running in his brain that goes something like, “Where are we? We’re not home. Where are we? We’re not home. Door! New people! Where are we? We’re not home….” and on and on. But having our own home again is good medicine for all of us, and though I dread all the work that moving requires, I don’t mind getting rid of what won’t fit in the new house, and I am once again the happy co-owner of a gas-powered stove.

So while we move and settle in over the next few weeks, and I pack the dried herbs in jars to use during the winter, I’ll remember my old herb garden and dream of a spectacular new backyard garden, where I can grow whatever I want. Though it won’t have chickens or a goat or a donkey, it is enough land to breathe. And soon enough, it will feel like home for Hiro, too.

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