I’ve got an itch.
It happens every two years or so: I start looking at houses online. I daydream about fresh, unsullied spaces. Blank-slate walls. Freshly scrubbed baseboards. Intoxicating possibility.
Our daughter is 9 years old. She’s lived in 4 different houses and one apartment.
I’d just chalk up the constant itch to move as part of my charming quirkiness. Except that this time we’ve found the perfect neighborhood, a house we like, community that we want to put down roots in.
So, what do I do with this itch? Because, it’s there. Oh, it is THERE.
And I’ve come to a realization: I’m going to have to start LIVING in this house. Like I intend to stay.
That means actually hanging pictures & art in our bedroom. And painting the walls. And figuring out where the hell to store our stuff. It means wrestling with what isn’t working and finding a solution.
It means not leaving.
I’m in the process of psychic cleansing right now. Letting go of what has not served me. Welcoming what heals.
Now I need to take that outside myself. Into the space I live.
I want this house to be a place to renew, to explore, to be.
I want this house to feel like home.
I don’t believe in a “forever home”–life is too dynamic for that. But I do want this house to live into the possibility of home. It deserves a chance to do that.
I think the 3 of us deserve that.
Remotely Intellectual 