I open a drawer, and there it is: the item I am looking for. This discovery has significance, because it is the first time I’ve nailed it, finding what I’m looking for without opening several other drawers in the process.

Being in a new place is much like the game where you have to turn over two matching cards. Unless you’re lucky, it takes some time and effort to recall where to re-find the second one. And you cannot even get to that mental exercise, of finding, say, the veggie peeler, until each thing finds its rightful place in the new kitchen to begin with.

The process of organizing and finding where familiar items will now rest in a new home is such a great creative project. Here? Or there? Options seem endless. It requires astute assessment of the various considerations, such as access to the dishwasher, or pantry, or, in other parts of the house, to the drawers and shelves. It requires a birds-eye view of the total sum of the things that will make the journey to this new setting and how each will find its new place among the configurations of a different space. It means knowing which light switch will illuminate the room you’re entering. Where is everything going to land? Oh, look at this cool little drawer in the wet bar. It’s perfect for the wine opener!

I love it.

Yet new places also demand patience while the learning curve rises so steeply. It will eventually flatten out, of course, but in those first early days, everything can feel overwhelming and chaotic. The process plays its tricks for a few weeks, until that delicious moment when you open a drawer and, viola!, reaching for something has attained its own muscle memory.

Then there are the other “new places” life offers. Ever since Friday, February 24, my extended family has had the joy and trepidation normal to all that comes with greeting a newborn into life. Yes, what everyone has told me (and which I never doubted), it is life changing. Along with her parents, her other grandparents, her aunts and uncles and cousins, and her other many admirers across the globe, this little girl has been heartily and happily received.

I have always loved the Spanish term, dar luz, in which a baby, when born, is “given light.” Now that the new human named Layla Ludine has come into the light, her parents have been smitten by that indescribable, deep, abiding, consuming and instantaneous Siren song of awe at this tiny, mighty miracle. For my part, it seems that I am also now in another new place. I am this little girl’s Grammy. It is astonishing, and natural, and weirdly existential. As with a new physical home, I have a new relational challenge of finding my place. I am taking it on with relish, of course, and also with some trepidation for all that it represents.

It represents a new place in the order of things. My daughter now holds the central position on that volleyball court of life, and I have moved over, still at her side, but no longer in the middle generation.

It represents the need to take on what I am choosing to call an “adjunct” role. My job, as I see it, is to be the elder, a guide, not a boss. It seems important to ask, “how can I best be helpful to you right now?” instead of proclaiming how I think things should be done.

It represents a powerful opportunity to be for Layla that person who is a step removed from the hot blue center of the family flame. As my mother would, had she lived, have done for my daughter, I hope to give Layla special memories that just the two of us share. The trick of it is that I’ll be 90 years young when this tiny human being reaches the someday-age of 20. Not to be trite but, wow...

While immersed in the first few weeks of this new place and finding our way, I’m mindful of the very true fact that the path forward will not always be clear to see or easy to travel. I’m mindful that there are many peaks and valleys to come, just as there were when I was the new mother. I have direct experience with the way, when that newness wears off, life swoops back in with all of its outside agendas.

The experiences of parenting have taught me patience. They have given me purpose, and helped define my life in deeply humbling ways. They have helped me realize that, no, I really am not in charge, and there are many things a person cannot and should not try to control. Life is a new place every day. The best I can do is bear in mind the solid frame of my life’s “house” and trust it. With the foundations of experience and forethought (and a good deal of luck and help from friends), I will find my place and revel in it, with all its frailties and fraught. We all will.