Savoring Home Before the Journey
The decision to move to Portugal feels both exciting and surreal. I find myself considering the what the transition will be like between two worlds: the anticipation of cobblestone streets, sunlit plazas, and a new chapter abroad, and the sudden awareness of everything I'm about to leave behind in the Pacific Northwest. It's a strange paradox of human nature that we often don't truly see what we have until we're preparing to let it go. But I'm determined not to let my last months here slip by in a fog of logistics and packing lists. Instead, I want to be fully present, to drink in the misty mornings and evergreen trees, to appreciate the familiar rhythms of this place that is and will likely always be home to me. Because I know that Portugal, great as it will be, will come with its own challenges and adjustments. And the practice of finding joy and gratitude here, now, is the same practice I'll need to carry with me across the Atlantic.
The Pacific Northwest has never been perfect. The endless gray skies from November through May can feel oppressive. The worsening traffic, the cost of living, the way the rain and cold seeps into your bones and makes you question why you don't live somewhere sunnier. At one point, I told my kids, “Don’t be surprised if you graduate from High School and dad then moves to Hawaii.” I have lived in other places, so I do know how great it is in the PNW. I hated the oppressive humidity of South Carolina and Georgia (even though I was born there). But lately, I've been thinking, “I need to capture all this now while I’m here. This may be my last chance to do so.”
I’ve always loved the skies here. While we do have a lot of grey days, we also have some of the most amazing cloudscapes I’ve seen anywhere in the world. Someone mentioned how Washington State is like the capital of coffee headquarters here in the U.S. Of course, that person has never been to Italy or Portugal to understand how small of a boast that really is. I will miss the mountains that appear on clear days like a gift you'd forgotten you'd been promised. I remember when I was living in San Antonio, Texas for a few months and how much I missed seeing the mountains. I almost felt exposed in Texas, not hugged by mountain ranges like at home. I went up in the Tower of the Americas (sort of like Seattle’s Space Needle) so that I could get a better view of the surroundings. So, there I was in San Antonio, 579 feet up and thinking, “I may as well be standing at street level. There’s absolutely nothing to see from up here. The horizon just goes on flat like that forever.” If you’re up in the Space Needle however (520 feet at the observation deck), you’re surrounded by tall buildings, hills, the Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains. The Space Needle offers a magnificent view.
These aren't trivial things. They're the texture of a life lived in a specific place, and I'm realizing that I want to memorize them, to carry their essence with me even as I physically leave them behind.
I'm under no illusions about Portugal. Every expat blog, every Facebook group, every honest conversation reveals the reality: bureaucracy that moves at a glacial pace, language barriers that can turn simple errands into exhausting challenges, the loneliness of being far from everyone who knows your history. There will be days when I miss being able to accomplish five different errands before 10am. I’ll miss having people who understand my cultural references without explanation. The grass always looks greener, but it's never actually perfect anywhere. And that's precisely why this time matters so much. If I can learn to truly appreciate what I have here—imperfections and all—then I'll have the tools to do the same in Portugal. Gratitude isn't about pretending everything is perfect. It's about finding what nourishes you even in the midst of what frustrates you.
So I plan on making a conscious effort to engage with this place as if I'm already a visitor, to see it through the eyes of someone who doesn't get to wake up here every day. I'm retired now. So I can take the scenic route more often. I can schedule lunches with my dad whenever is convenient for him because I don’t have to be back at the office.
I once heard a conversation where one man asked the other how often he saw his parents who lived several states away from him. He responded that he tried to get there twice a year but at least once per year. His parents were in their mid-seventies. “So,” the other man responded, “at best, you’ll likely see them about twenty more times.” That’s heavy. But, here it is also my reality now. So, if it’s important to me, I’d better make use of the time I have now by having deeper conversations with friends and family, asking questions I should have asked years ago, storing up stories and connections that will sustain me across the distance. There's a bittersweetness to all of it—a heightened awareness that makes ordinary moments feel precious. But this is what presence feels like. It's not always comfortable, but it's deeply real.
In Portugal, I'll need this same intentionality to notice the beauty in daily routines, to make new friends, to find joy in small discoveries, to build a sense of home in unfamiliar spaces. The ability to be present and grateful isn't location-dependent. It's a choice I can make every day, regardless of the address on my mail.
As my departure date draws closer, I'm holding both realities at once: the excitement of what's ahead and the memories of what I'm leaving. I'm not trying to convince myself that the Pacific Northwest is perfect or that I'm making a mistake by leaving. I'm not catastrophizing about Portugal or romanticizing it into something it won't be. Instead, I'm practicing something more difficult and more valuable: being here, fully here, until I'm not anymore. And then, when I land in Portugal, jet-lagged and overwhelmed and wondering what I've done, I'll remember this practice. I'll look for the first thing that makes me smile—maybe the warmth of the sun, or the sound of Portuguese conversations floating through an open window, or the taste of a pastel de nata that's still warm from the oven. And I'll choose gratitude again, just as I'm choosing it now. Because home isn't just a place. It's a practice of paying attention, of noticing what matters, of finding beauty in both the familiar and the foreign. And that's something I can take with me anywhere.
