There are stirrings afoot in my life – a new home is on the horizon and a big part of me doesn’t yet want to get too excited. I suppose that particular part of myself is the part that is frightened that things may still go awry – but I keep hoping beyond hope – quiet, but hard, in the back of my mind, mostly when no one is looking, or when it’s just me and my daughter at nursing time – that this is finally IT. It is finally happening…
we are moving to a new house! After 11 years – about 6 years longer than I ever thought – we are moving on.
This has me feeling so many different things – aside from the hesitation that it isn’t quite real yet. Many of the people who know me outside of the “internets” understand what I must be feeling these days. They know how long my husband and I have wanted a new home and the reasons for why it has taken so long.
But what these folks may not know, is the deep connection I have with the notion of “home” and why my anxiety about this move is sky-high.
I blame my parents.
As a child, my home was a place of solace, joy, and wonderful memories. I realize this isn’t true for everyone – so please do not misplace my expression of gratitude as bragging. My parents made our home truly homey… even though we moved 8 times over the course of my childhood – up and down the east coast, with a stint in Texas – wherever I laid my head, it was home and I was safe, warm, secure, and loved. For that, I am truly thankful.
Plus, my mom always did a good job decorating.
So, it’s no wonder that when the time came for me to set up my own home, I had placed very high expectations on myself to make it just as homey as my childhood. And the anticipation of waiting for things to be Final and Real for this next move has me on the edge of a salty blade… coupled with all the other *normal* stuff of life (parenting, working, etc.), sprinkled with packing and packing and more packing – I’m just really fun to be around these days.
When you’ve wanted something so much, for so long – it heightens the emotions associated with waiting – and you find yourself singing the chorus from Tom Petty’s “The Waiting.” At least that’s what I do.
And, I just keep focusing on Jeremiah 29:11…
Plus, the idea of “home” for me goes beyond a place to live. It is the place where we make a life. It goes without saying that “home” is a safe place, but for me, I place a lot of emphasis on the importance of my home in how I live my life.
Within the sacred walls of my home, I have relationships with the people in my life absolutely closest to me. We make and share meals together, we celebrate holidays, and we are at our most vulnerable – we bathe, dress, sleep, laugh, and cry – and in my particular case, give birth – in our home.
So, for me – it’s more than a structure where we “make memories.” It’s where life is – and because of that importance, I cherish it. I cherish the space by keeping it clean and organized, by decorating it beautifully and making it comfortable, by fixing things when they break and improving things when they need it.
Home is my life.
And while I have enjoyed living in the tiny space we currently call home (and I will miss it someday), I also realize that, like in life, we grow out of things – and in this case, it’s our tiny home. And that is okay.
So, I’m waiting, hoping, packing, parenting, working, packing, waiting, hoping, packing, and on and on and on. And I’m getting to the end of what has been the longest 30 days of my life – as we are scheduled to settle on the new house next week.
Seriously, I was more relaxed waiting to give birth to my first child.
But wait, there’s more!
Tomorrow we’ll talk about all the stuff I’m feeling about moving to a new community.