I have mostly finished moving into a place I intend to live in for a decade. I am not good at the idea of permanence. I like to plan for all possible options and outcomes and not commit to any. So now I sit in a house I have a mortgage on and wait for it to feel like something. It was an enormous and exhausting effort to find and buy the place, so I expected it to feel like something when I moved in or shortly thereafter, but it does not. It feels no more permanent than any other place I've ever stayed. It is possible that it doesn't feel more permanent because I am incapable of relying on anything to be more than a temporary state. Or maybe it is something that takes the time passed to sink in.
Nearly simultaneously, I became aware that my sense of time passing has shifted significantly. The time is near for there to be more history behind me than there is in front of me and the need to do accounting on what my life is and what it could still be seems to both more urgent and harder to focus on. I appreciate that the absence of children means that I don't get to see time pass slowly on a daily basis the way parents do, so markers of progress or change are inherently less visible for me.
So while I want to notice the moments and I know the power of being mindful in my life, it seems that the dissonance between moving and everything being in flux with the intent of creating stability is causing me to exist outside of myself for the time being. Wherever you go, there you are seems true and yet impossible.