When we moved The Sun office last summer, I thought it would take a few weeks to get set up in our new location. How naive of me.
It wasn’t until we unpacked all the boxes that I realized what we’d left behind: the familiar arrangement of things; the intangibles that make a place home; the way the light from a certain window moves across a desk as the afternoon lengthens; the invisible roots every object sends out, connecting it to everything else. Moving was simple, but moving in will take months, perhaps years.
I couldn’t accept this at first. In love with the promise of 107 North Roberson, I wanted to translate that promise instantly. I rushed from room to room, trying to make everything just right. But I didn’t really know this old house yet, in all its moods and seasons; I hadn’t sat on the front porch during a rainstorm, or looked out my second-story window at falling snow. I forgot that this relationship was like any other: jumping into bed with someone is easy; getting to know and love that person takes time.
Finally, I saw that my impatience was making me miserable. I was so obsessed with the shelves we hadn’t built yet and the ferns we hadn’t hung that I’d turned the blessing of moving into a burden. I’d stopped appreciating simply being here, in this lovely building I’d long admired.
The irony wasn’t lost on me. If The Sun exists to celebrate who we really are, in all our moods and seasons, it also reminds us not to take anything for granted. As we all sometimes do, I needed the reminder.