The dumpster is nearly full, packed with twin bed frames, a couple of lawn mowers (drained of fluids), one of those corner entertainment cabinets so useful before flat screen televisions and so useless after. Both of my adult sons have gone through the attic and basement, putting aside things they want to keep and piling up whatever will be donated or thrown away.

The furniture in this space is a mix of things we’ve had for years, a few newer additions, and some pieces our son picked up in the three years he lived here alone. The same goes for the art on the walls and the kitchen supplies. There are still a lot of boxes to unpack as well as furniture that will need to be rearranged, but the home we returned to after a three year absence won’t look like it did before we left it. That’s good: none of us are in the same place in life that we held back then. This home should reflect that.

This whole move back feels something like walking a labyrinth. I’ve traveled a bit, then looped back – not exactly where I was before, and not exactly the same person I was before. Things change, the perspective changes, and I change along with them – whether I am living in a different house or in the same space, life moves me along. And just like walking a labyrinth, it can be a holy experience or a practically pointless looping back and forth. My choice as to which I choose.