Suitcase.

Year Four. Month Eight. #BLI.

There was a beautiful sunset tonight.

I watched it from my car, while driving between someplace and another place, between airports and airplanes and here and there.

I texted my partner Tim about it, and as I did I thought about all the beautiful sunrises and sunsets we had watched together in various places: our first date in Seattle years ago, in Japan and Korea and Mexico while traveling the world together, on our beautiful Whidbey Island where Tim proposed and most recently in Costa Rica, on our honeymoon.

Watching the sun appear and disappear with someone you love is always the best.

It feels like a sweet afternoon nap on an old worn couch. It feels like a warm mug of tea in your kitchen on a grey day. It feels like home, no matter where you are.

Years ago in our tiny Seattle studio with good ol' Bruce the Catman. We miss you, always.

But, as always, home is a funny concept.

Especially for me. Now.

We sold our home back in August, ready for a big move away from our pretty little island. We found what we thought was our dream home, pale yellow with a white picket fence and a big back yard.

But it wasn't meant to be. Or something.

We put all of our things in storage and watched as house after house slipped through our fingers. Low appraisals, bad inspections and higher offers kept each house at bay, even after we had fallen in love with each new potential home.

I'll go to the ends of the earth with you. Let's go places, together.

In the meantime, Tim joined me in my nomadic lifestyle and began living out of a suitcase -- really, truly living out of a suitcase. We began couchsurfing with various friends, trying to not outstay our welcome anywhere. With each new house we found we felt sure that the end of this journey was near and we would soon be moving into our forever home.

But it just didn't happen. Hasn't happened.

Yet.

It's been tough. And, as I tell myself daily, it's not that bad.

We didn't lose everything.

Our precious memories, my favorite mug and that old worn couch are securely stored. We have our health and our jobs and money for food.

Houses come and go but you'll always be my forever home.

We just don't have a home right now, and we don't know where we'll be staying in a week, let alone a month.

It's okay. We're okay.

It's going to be okay.

Tonight I watched the sunset from my car.

I can't wait to hold your hand and watch it from our front porch.

Happy househunting!