Among the (not too) chilly aura of Virginia’s winter, among the business of my writing and freelancing, quietly passed four years since I moved to the United States and over twelve years since I immigrated from my own country. And nothing tells me clearer that I settled in my new home than the fact that I had to do math to figure out both numbers.
It’s hard to believe that 4 years ago I packed all the essential things (many of them being books, of course), gave or threw away over 8-years worth of living stuff, and embarked on a plane to carry me over the ocean to start a new life. (You can read more about it in my Of the Endings post.)
Now, after all that time, I can look back and see how that “starting went”.