A walk in the park

We all know that grief and sorrow are not a walk in the park. But sometimes you just have to walk anyway.

I took these pictures this morning in the Kauffman Memorial Garden, a real gem in the heart of Kansas City. I am finding the camera's eye is helping me see things I might otherwise overlook. That helps. Movement and beauty can help us heal. The walk and the flowers brought me some comfort. I hope they do for you, too.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

Eight things I've learned in the last 14 months

A year ago today I got in my car in Boston and began driving to Kansas City. A year and two days ago, I got married. A year and a month ago I gave notice at a job I'd held for 12 years. A year and two months ago my love and I decided to throw our lives up in the air and see what happened.

It's been a wild ride.

I don't regret the choices we made. We decided to leave Boston and come to KC for good reasons. Over the past year we've learned so much about ourselves, our world and our place in it. Here are a few of those lessons.

1. It's impossible to drive alone. I get a lot of surprised looks when people find out I drove from Boston to KC by myself. For one, I like long drives, they give me time to think. And for another, I wasn't alone. While I was the only human in that car for three days, I carried with me memories, imaginary friends and one guinea pig in a carrying case beside me. When your passenger is continually demanding carrots, you know you're not alone.
2. A companion helps. While it's had its challenges, this year would have been immeasurably harder had Kevin Brooks not been by my side. Not a sidekick, not supporting character, not the hero waiting for me to come along, but companion.
3. Don't deny the feelings. In the past year I have grieved a place, a community, a way of life. I've fallen in love with a new place and a new life. I've been confused, frustrated, elated and more. Living the big life means you feel your feelings and accept that even the best and worst will change.
4. Shit happens. You can figure it out. Two days before I drove to KC, leaving all I knew in Boston behind, and the morning of our wedding, Kevin and I lost the house we were planning to live in. We were without a home. And we figured it out. We figured out so many things this year, alone and together. Take a deep breath. Even if it's bad, you can find a way through.
5. Pfft. Who needs maps? Get lost once in awhile. I've discovered some great parts of Kansas City by turning off my GPS and just exploring.
6. Don't be afraid to be alone. I have had more solitary time this year than ever before. It's been wonderful. I've learned how I work, how I play, how to balance the two and who I am when no one is looking. The time spent in the car with only ghosts and a guinea pig for company helped me launch into this new adventure with a clearer mind. Every day, I have a chance to check in and see who I am today.
7. Given a chance, people are generally kind. Sure, there are assholes. But most people, most of the time, default to benign disinterest. If you ask for help, they fall in love with the idea of being useful. Give them the opportunity to be kind. From the waitress in the Huddle House to the desk clerk somewhere in Indiana, people were kind to me for the whole drive. They've been kind here, too. I am grateful.
8. When adventure calls, say yes. Every hero's journey starts with the call to adventure. It's very easy to pretend we don't hear it, amidst our comfortable homes and technology and routine. This year has helped me remember that saying yes to adventure, while difficult sometimes, can't help but be rewarding. Give it a shot. Who knows, at a minimum you'll end up with stories to tell.

(c)2014 Laura S. Packer

Views from Kansas City

From time to time I'm posting pictures of my new hometown. We have spectacular skies here. While I'm not a great photographer (the framing on some of these is terrible) I thought they were pretty. Enjoy.

Icy sunrise, seen through my third floor window.

Winter sunsets

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Displacement

As you know, last January I moved from Boston to Kansas City. It has generally been a positive change, though parts of it continue to be challenging. This makes sense, any kind of big life change requires patience; I’m thinking of it as evolution, it takes time to adapt.

Over the last six weeks I have had a number of work engagements in Boston, leaving my new home and going back to the old. This gives me an enormous feeling of displacement. While it’s wonderful seeing people I’ve missed and visiting some of my old favorites, I have a great sense of not-belonging.

Let me explain. 

Kansas City is starting to feel like home. I have a few favorite haunts, I am making friends, I am well settled into our home. My life has some routine and regularity now. I have a favorite grocery store and movie theater. I am beginning to relax though I don’t yet feel rooted. 

All that being said, I still get lost. I don’t know how to get places. The traffic patterns are occasionally surprising. I’m still looking for suitable equivalents for various things I love. The weather is still new to me. I am still learning the social mores.  I am sometimes lonely. Every day I am reminded of my newness in this place. And every day I remind myself that this is now home. I know where my bed is. My beloved is here. I am learning.

Back in Boston, I know the roadways. I know the shortcuts. I have my old favorites, the things that most comfort me. I have a community. But I don’t have a home base here. My friends are very welcoming, making places for me in their homes as warm as the place I already hold in their hearts. 

And here is where the cognitive dissonance lies. I keep thinking I should either feel at home in Boston or feel homesick when I’m in Kansas City, but neither have happened. I don’t feel at home in Boston anymore, though I feel comfortable. And I don’t feel homesick for Boston when I’m in KC, because that is becoming home. But neither are home the way I have living for the last 20+ years. So I end up feeling displaced.

What I’m telling myself when I feel adrift, is that this is in fact an incredibly valuable time. By not being rooted I can see what remains of me when I don’t have a geographical center. And I find that mostly I am the same, but not entirely. 

I move a bit differently. My skin is my home now. My observations of the world, my home. The moment is my home in ways it never was. To a large degree, this displacement has given me a greater appreciation and awareness of presence than I’ve experienced as an adult. I have become my own center. And for that, I am grateful.

The task at hand becomes retaining that sense of presence wherever I am, regardless of whether I am rooted or adrift. 

This moment. 

This city.

This breath.

I find myself home.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Some thoughts on free speech, bigotry and living in a new place

By and large, I am delighted with our move to Kansas City, Missouri. My beloved is much happier in his job, where he is creative, valued and challenged every day. I have leapt into building my own business as a storyteller, writer and consultant. We have met many wonderful people, we are making friends, we are happy. The Midwest seems to be treating us well.

But there is history that can't be escaped. In the urban Northeast, it's possible, though not easy, if you are white to pretend the U.S. is close to post-racial. What's easier is to be outraged at the things that are happening elsewhere, rant and rave but do nothing. The compromise many of us make (those of us who pay attention to these things) is to try to effect change, but do so from a place of little risk. It's easy to rant and rave, protest and march when the worst you are likely risking is a few days in jail.

Here in the Midwest (and likely all over the country outside of big, integrated urban areas) bigotry is often more visible. When we moved here, a friend told us to avoid a certain part of Missouri because it proudly bears the nickname "Little Dixie." Okay. Little Dixie sounds pretty scary to a mixed race couple, one African American, one Jewish. We would avoid Little Dixie. We would avoid the rural South. We would be smart and be safe and could still be outraged, rant and rave and try to effect change from a place of safety.

This was challenged when a rodeo clown at the Missouri State Fair put on a Obama mask, placed a broom so it appeared to be sticking out of his rear, and taunted a bull while the announcer asked if anyone wanted to see Obama get it. The crowd roared.

We heard about it. And we decided to go to the fair anyway, be visible as a mixed race couple, and try to effect change simply by not being afraid. We weren't the only mixed race or non-white couple there and we weren't the only ones holding hands.

Not too hard, not too scary, not too unsafe. But certainly more out front that we'd had to be in Boston.

I need to digress for a moment. I believe in the First Amendment, that freedom of speech is vital to a functional democracy. And so, when I heard about the rodeo clown, I was disgusted but didn't object to the parody. This is protected speech. Even if I don't like it, it wasn't illegal.

So, when we drove by some people having a picnic, we knew that they had a right to be there. And we had a right to drive away as fast as we dared when we saw the two large Confederate flags, the shorn hair, the black leather vests. We saw symbols in a language we don't want to know but have to recognize. As we drove away we passed a Methodist church, an Assembly of God church and a Baptist church and we both wondered how many of those people attended these churches.

Once we were far enough away, my sweetheart said, "This is what the Freedom Riders saw. They saw evil and it pursued them past the house of God. And even in those houses of God they wouldn't be safe."

We kept driving through the evening light and I know we both were watching for headlights behind us, even though we really had nothing to fear. The people at the picnic hadn't noticed us among the many cars passing them.

I am not trying to compare what we experienced to what the Freedom Riders did. We remained safe. We remained quiet. We came back to our urban home where we can rant and rave, protest and march, safely.

But it's different here. History is much more present, in the air we breath, in the stickers we see on the backs of cars, in the churches we pass where we might not have found sanctuary. I find myself thinking more and more about the past, as I move into this new part of my life. And I am so grateful for those who have gone before.

I am so grateful and, in seeing things like those flags, the picnic, the kids playing under the watchful eye of parents in black leather, I stand up a little more. I don't need to be as brave as the Freedom Riders, but I, too, have First Amendment protection that I can and will exercise. I'm doing so right now. I just need to learn the language of living in a new place.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Small, brave things

One of my favorite things about my new life in Kansas City is the diversity of wildlife. It’s farther south than I’ve ever lived so I’m meeting animals and plants I had only encountered in books. There are eagles that circle over my house, cicadas and frogs that sing at night. New kinds of flowers and roadside weeds. Different ladybugs. And recently I encountered a luna moth at my front door. 

Luna moths are stunning (as you can see in the picture). They’re also big insects - this moth was at least 6” across. As I leaned in to look, it flared its wings out, showing me the eye spots that might frighten a predator away. It was so small and so brave. If I were inclined to eat moths, it would have been an easy snack. I coaxed it onto my hand so I could move it to a spot less likely to be disturbed; I could feel its delicate toes gripping my finger, the soft, white body brushing my skin. It didn’t want to leave. 

As it finally settled into a safer spot I remembered the first time I ever saw a luna moth. 

When I was a kid my family took extended road trips across the U.S. We traveled from state-to-state in our VW bus, stopping at campgrounds along the way. I remember campfires and stars, torrential rains beating on the tent and hours spent in the back of the car. By the time I was 10, I had seen many of the contiguous 48 states. 

At each new campground my parents would set up camp while I took a walk. It was a more innocent time, so there was no worry as I wandered, looking for friends.  I’d find kids somewhere near my age, introduce myself and we’d see if we wanted to play together. I did this in every camp we stopped at. I met some great people and have some wonderful memories.

We were somewhere in the southeastern U.S. My parents were pitching the tent while I went out, looking for friends. I saw a group of kids standing in a semi-circle, looking at something on the ground. One had a stick and was poking at their object of interest. I walked up to introduce myself and saw a luna moth, pinned to the ground by a rock, its wings fluttering weakly.

I asked them what they were doing.

“Playing.”

“Why do you have a rock on that moth?”

“Cause.”

“Pick up the rock, let it go. It’s hurt!”

“It can’t fly anyway, see?”

One of the boys picked up the rock then put it back carefully, so the moth remained pinned, slowly crushed.

“That’s mean, you’re hurting it!”

By now the kids were less interested in the moth than in me. I found myself in the middle of their circle. The boy with a stick stepped up close.

“What do you care? It’s just a stupid moth. And it’s ours, we found it, so we can do what we want.”

“It’s a living thing, let it go!”

By now I’m sure I was yelling. The kids moved in closer, the boy with the stick was so close I could smell his breath. He was easily 6" taller and 20 pounds heavier. I wasn’t sure what to do. I couldn’t leave the moth trapped. I didn’t want to get hurt. 

With one sharp shove I pushed the boy down and ran, kicking the rock off the moth as I passed. I know now that was likely the moth’s death knell, but better a quick death than a lingering one. The kids chased me until we were back in the main part of the campground then fell back. We all pretended nothing had happened and I told my parents I couldn’t find any friends.

The next day I found crumbled moth wings at the front of our site. I didn’t tell my parents. I buried them, crying as quietly as I could. 

Each time I see a luna moth I can’t help but look at it tenderly and want to protect it. Maybe I’m trying to protect the little girl I was, the girl who grew up to be someone who still can’t be quiet, who still pushes bigger bullies and who still wishes she could have saved that one broken beautiful thing.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Eight things I learned from the Kansas City Fringe Festival

This past week found me at the Kansas City Fringe Festival, telling my story of cancer survival, mythology and bike rides, From Terror to Triumph. It was a great experience. I met hundreds of wonderful people attending fringe, many talented performers and learned a great deal about living the life of a storyteller.

So you don't make the same mistakes I did (you get to make your own) as well as for our mutual amusement and edification, here is a list of the Top 8 Things I Learned (or relearned) From The Kansas City Fringe Festival.

8. I like accosting people on the street. A big part of getting audience for your fringe show involves handing out publicity postcards on the street to people going to other shows. Turns out, this is fun! People like meeting the performers and love to talk. (If you want a copy of the postcard, I will mail them to the first 10 people who contact me. Bonus gift if you comment below on this post!) Maybe my next career is as a street side story vendor?

7. Listening counts. My street postcard pitch went something like this, "I'd like to invite you to my fringe show. It's a mythic journey through cancer and beyond. If you or someone you care about has been effected, please come." About a third of the people I said this to then told me their cancer story. The ones I listened to came to my show.

6. The definition of fringe is flexible. What defines edgy art? Does it need to have nudity? Swear words? Sometimes just being honestly playful or talking about the tough stuff makes for a powerful fringe. We bury play in work, hide the tough stuff behind admonishments to buck up. Sometimes art is fringe just because it declares itself.

5. Don't forget to feed your beast. I went to several great shows at the Fringe Festival and was reminded that making good art requires consuming good art. Don't starve yourself.

4. Practice is a good thing. Practice with listeners is better. In this case, I was practicing my story in front of an audience, running through the whole 55-minute set three times in five days. Because I am a storyteller and not confined to a word-for-word script, the story shifted each time. I loved hearing how some bits rose to the surface and others fell away as I danced with the audience. I now have a much greater understanding of the story than I did, even with many hours of solo practice behind me.

3. Be yourself. Be vulnerable. No matter what I tell, my audience is always more connected and involved if I am myself. If I'm not trying to be someone else or do something contradictory to my nature. What's more, by allowing myself to be vulnerable on stage my audience has permission to be vulnerable themselves, to experience whatever they need to while they hear the story.

2. Self-care matters. I didn't see as many other shows as I would have liked because I was worn out from performing this emotionally intense piece. That's okay. I saw enough to feed the beast and I rested enough to give my audience everything I could.

1. When you touch people, they need to touch you. I've experienced this before, certainly, but it was borne home with great power during the fringe. When you tell a story that means something to people, when you give them permission to feel strong emotions, they often need to connect with you  afterwards. It's been a long time since I've had this many people need to hug me, touch my shoulder, even cry in my arms. This is part of the storyteller's job, helping people feel what they need to feel. I believe I have a responsibility to not run away from the feelings my story may have induced.

The last thing I relearned? Gratitude. I am so grateful for the chance to tell this story to these audiences. Thank you.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Some thoughts on the Kansas City Fringe Festival

This week has found me performing in the Kansas City Fringe Festival. For those of you who may not know, a fringe festival is a non-juried arts festival, where acts are selected by lottery. Traditionally, fringe festivals have latitude for every kind of art, from the tame to the outrageous. They are often associated with the outrageous, since acts that might not get into traditional arts festivals or venues have a chance here.

I have been performing my one-woman show, From Terror to Triumph: Overcoming cancer one mile at a time. It merges my experiences as a cancer survivor and slow, fat athlete with two ancient myths, altogether taking a look at identity and survival. It's a fairly draining show to perform, since some of the emotions are still (19 years later!) pretty raw, but it's worth it. While it isn't really all that fringe-y - I don't strip, swear much or cover myself in edibles - it is meaningful to those who have been effected by cancer. Which means almost everyone.

It's been a powerful thing, performing this show twice in a week with the third time this coming Saturday. People have been telling me their own stories of loss and survival. When I go out of the street to hand out fliers, people stop, their faces shift, and I know this means something to them. I am reminded over and over that none of us are unique in our experiences.

My audiences have been small but interested and engaged. I've made people laugh and cry. Maybe I convinced someone that they could make a difference in the world. Kansas City fringe audiences are very generous with their attention. It's been lovely.

I grateful for the opportunity to share this story. I'm especially enjoying the challenge of crafting together over 10 years of my life and ancient myths, making it all somehow applicable to a wide range of people, regardless of their experience with cancer, bikes or me. I am also enjoying revisiting this time of my life. Mostly, I'm enjoying the experience of performing, of connecting with my audiences, of remembering that yes, I am still here.

Next year I hope to perform in the fringe again, likely something quite different, maybe Fairy Tales for Grown-Ups, which is more in keeping with the edgy nature of the fringe. But then again, who knows? By next year I may have a whole new adventure to share with the world.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Kansas City: the small things

It's been almost seven months now, which seems amazing. Almost seven months since Kevin and I packed up our life in Boston and began reconstituting here in Kansas City, Missouri. It was the right choice. It was the hard choice. Every day is a new adventure.

It puts me in mind of the millions of people who left their homes for new lands, knowing they never would go home again, that the most they could hope for was a long-delayed letter. How lucky we are to live in this age of electrons and airplanes.

I'm working on a piece about what all of this feels like, but I'm finding it challenging writing, so it will go up another time.

For now, I wanted to share some of the small wonders I've found here. I am a fan of small wonders. Kansas City is a pretty amazing place and I thought you might like to see some of the details. In the next few weeks I'll post some broader views.

Let's start with where we are, in case there are any doubts. I found this on the step of an old warehouse. KC is rich in old warehouses.

I'm not the only one who enjoys looking around Kansas City.

Who would have thought this would be here?

And if you need a rest, there are secret gardens. This is my favorite. 

I have found wonders within and without.

And, barring bad weather, I can always go to my own back yard for succor.

(c) 2013 Laura Packer

Adventures in storytelling: Starting a new venue

Moving to Kansas City from Boston has been great. I really like this city and, for the most part, am delighted to be here. One of the few things Boston has over KC is a very active storytelling scene. I was part of building that scene over the last 20 years, so I know how long it takes and how rewarding it can be. Here in KC there is the local guild, River and Prairie Storyweavers which hosts two annual festivals, and a slam series, but not much else. Both of these are great, and there's room for more.

One of the wonderful things about storytelling is that it's an expansive art, with room for many different kinds of people and venues. My first real storytelling experience was in an open mic series, hosted by Brother Blue. I went on to run several other series based on his model. Coming out here, I wanted to start something similar, but also use some of what I learned from the slam series run by massmouth.

My first task was to find the right venue, which was easier than I could have dreamed. Prospero's Books is a fantastic used bookstore. A few months before I arrived in KC they opened a new location with a space specifically designed for performance. The manager, Will, was excited about storytelling, we picked a night and he told me to run with it.

Speak Out Storytelling KC was born. It's a storytelling series with monthly themes, an open mic and two features. The themes, idea borrowed from story slams, give all the tellers direction for their tales and gives the evening a cohesion it might not otherwise have. Unlike slams, the stories don't have to be true, they just have to relate to the theme in some vague way or another. We decided to have two shorter features rather than one longer one because it gives more artists a chance to strut their stuff and it will help us build audience.

A month later - last night - we had our first event. The local entertainment newspaper ran a feature on us, our facebook page was getting attention, we were as ready as we could be.

Joyce Slater

The weather here in KC is not the kind you want to go out in. We've had more snow in the last two weeks than there's been in the last three years. So, all things considered, we had a pretty good turnout. About 20 people came to hear and tell.

Our features were Joyce Slater, a KC storyteller and organizer, and me. Joyce had a great story about her first boy girl dance, while told about several first time experiences. We had several open mic tellers, all nervous and all on theme. Most of our attendees had never been to a storytelling event before and left excited and ready for more.

Mission accomplished. Storytelling venue launched. If you find yourself in KC on the fourth Thursday of the month, come by. It's a great space and fun event. We look forward to hearing you.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

Snow days

When I was a kid I yearned for snow days. Ached for them. Living in Philadelphia, they didn't happen too often, but when they did, they were bliss. Snow days meant sweet, grainy, instant hot chocolate (the only kind that existed through my childhood), the burn of cold on my cheeks, they meant remembering how to steer my sled and the long trudge up the hill, the prick of an icicle on my tongue, the chill of making a snow angel and the rustle of snow pants. Snow days were glaring white offerings from the universe that there was still time to be a kid in the midst of school and homework and chores.

As a teenager, snow days meant I could sleep late, read the day away, finish up the paper I had avoided. They meant hours on the phone with my friends, watching the same tv shows back when we didn't have cable and our choices still seemed limitless. Snow days were a chance to stay inside, a reminder from the universe that I didn't have to venture out into the world yet.

In college, snow days were snow forts and snowball fights and hours in the library. They were more frequent, since I had moved to New England. Snow days meant developing a certain blase´ attitude towards the snow and the inconvenience. I was in Boston now, snow? Bah. Snow days were a chance to feel nostalgia for a childhood I didn't exactly have, an opportunity to play ferociously.

Then I got a car that needed to be shoveled out. And a parking space that had to protected. And a job that never closed. And had to pay taxes that only sometimes seemed to result in good snow removal services. There were no more snow days, only days with snow. I forgot the wonder of icicles and the comfort of looking out my window with the phone pressed tight to my ear.

Snow became an inconvenience, the glare a trigger for migraines. I found myself one of the adults who had lost the wonder of snow, frozen instead by inconvenience. Sure, I would stop from time to time and admire the shape of a tree limb in the snow, but then I would go back to shoveling or curse the driver who stole my parking space. I didn’t have the time for snow days anymore.

Life changes and changes you. Sometimes for bad and sometimes, in unexpected ways, for good.

Now I am living far from New England, in a city that is crippled by the snow. Since I moved here we’ve had two storms, significant even by New England standards. I am not blase´ about this snow, since there is a real possibility I could lose power and heat. The roads are unplowed. I have the awesome opportunity to remember that, once upon a time, snow storms were fatal. They sometimes still are. What’s more, while I still have a car and the attendant inconveniences, my time is my own. My job is here, in this house.  No one is expecting me to show up for work on time because work is all the time, any time. This means on this snow day I can drink hot chocolate (better than the grainy, sweet stuff of my childhood) and look out the window, marveling in my warmth and safety, stunned by the beauty of the storm.

I can take a snow day, slow down and work in this warm house while watching the world transform into black and white. I can walk through the snow and hear the squeak beneath my boots, stop and help my neighbor shovel, fall on my back and make a snow angel, shuddering as snow slips down the neck of my coat. I can again stop to admire the hush of the world. 

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

The smells of my new home

courtesy vintageprintable.com

I'm sure you've heard somewhere that scent is the most reliable trigger of memory. I've also read, though I have no idea where, that scent is an infant's first reliable sense. I've always had a fairly acute sense of smell and navigate the world, in part, by its aroma. This isn't always a good thing, but it does provide a deeper understanding of people, places and things. It means I understand the world, in part, by how it smells.

I wrote recently about the sounds of my new home, how the wail of the train is a new song. It smells different here, too, and I thought I'd share some of the smells with you before I become inured to them.

1. Oh, you know this one had to be first. Barbecue. Drive around Kansas City on a Saturday night with the windows open and all you can smell is the sweet, smokey, rich scent of people eating, drinking, laughing and striving for a good time. Frankly, it's a little stunning how the whole place smells like a cook out.
2. And on the other end of the spectrum, sewage. The sewers here must not run as deep, because standing near a street drain often carries with it a whiff of human waste. It's not overwhelming, but it's there and reminds me that while our own shit is inescapable I don't need to stand there and wallow in it.
3. My street smells like sycamore trees, sweet and spicy. I love sycamores (aka plane trees). They have such a distinctive scent, I used to collect their leaves and stuff pillows with them.
4. Fresh water. Kansas City is a pretty dry place, but there are hundreds of fountains and two rivers. In Massachusetts we'd get whiffs of marsh and salt water. Here, I smell fresh water.
5. Smoking regulations vary state-by-state and are more relaxed here than back east, so I often smell cigarette smoke. While I can't say it's my favorite smell, it does remind me of younger days when clubs smelled of smoke and I wrote poetry about the ways we obscure ourselves with ash and embers.
6. Lastly, my house is starting to smell of spices and books, the way my old home did. I walk in the kitchen door and smell hints of curry and garlic, cinnamon and tea. The stairways smell like the old books shelved there. The craft room has the faint scent of sandalwood incense.  It is, finally, smelling like home.

(c)2013 Laura S. Packer

From Boston to Kansas City

So, I made it to Kansas City. The road was long and not without adventure, but (to spoil the ending) all is okay.

Last Saturday (less than a week ago!) Kevin and I were preparing for our going-away party. We were excited and tired and nervous. The movers had arrived the day before and much of our life was already boxed, but the party would be fun; among other things, we were getting married, surprising everyone who thought they had come to wish us a safe journey in the most literal sense.

Half-an-hour before we were to leave, both of us rushing to shower and dress, trying not to trip over boxes, we got a call from the realtor who had found us a home in Kansas City. The whole process had been a little odd, she'd refused to let us sign a lease though she happily took our money. She wanted us to sign once we arrived, saying that way we wouldn't be paying rent until we were there. We objected, she insisted, and we were so relieved at finding a home that we didn't push the way we should have.

The house had been sold, she told us. Sorry, you don't have a place to live or put your stuff when the movers make it to KC in 10 days.

Her story changed as she repeated it, so both Kevin and I believe she knew about the likely sale ahead of time, that this was why she didn't want us to sign a lease; we were her ace-in-the-hole if the sale fell through. Be that as it may, we didn't have time to worry about her unethical behavior, we had a party with a wedding to go to, we had movers to oversee... we were busy.

The party was fun, the wedding was great and the next day the movers came back. We decided I should go to KC early to find housing, so I left on Monday as the movers were packing the truck, leaving Kevin to deal with them and the apartment clean-up without me.

From Malden to Kansas City is about 1425 miles. I arrived Wednesday afternoon, 2-and-a-half days of determined driving. Tuesday, my longest driving day, covered 700 miles. Along the way I saw stunning landscape, eroding farmhouses, mountains and plains, the wonder and oddity of this country. It was beautiful. It also gave me time to process some of my emotions about leaving Boston and time to strategize around finding a home.

Upon my arrival I immediately saw two homes (one lovely but with a limited lease, the other not really what I was looking for). I was prepared to go with the limited lease, just to have a home base, when one last home listing caught my eye. I sent an email at 11pm Wednesday, looked at the property at 9am Thursday and had a signed lease by 1pm. Just like that.

This home is beautiful. It's in a great neighborhood, blocks from a terrific bookstore and shops, and the house itself is warm and bright. Clearly, all of this madness was the universe conspiring to give us the home we really needed, not just a good-enough place.

All told, I am grateful. I am also tired, worn-out, exhausted and weary. Today and tomorrow I'm mostly resting. Once we're settled I will rest a little more before I undertake my next adventure. Because that's what it all is. An adventure.

Life is shaped by how we view it. While all of this has been stressful I'd rather view it as an adventure and fodder for more stories, than see it as anything else.

I'll keep you posted. Who knows what else the road will bring?

(c)2012 Laura S. Packer