I’m buying
a house.
No tiny shack, though equally no McMansion. All 1,068
square feet of modern architect-built rambler on an island in the middle of the
Puget Sound that’s a haven for writers and artists…and all for $195K.
I’ve kept mum a bit on the house and only still barely talking about
it and won’t write too much more at this point until the deed is done, the ink
is dry and the keys are in my hand, but in the end for a house I’ll own I will
be paying $350 to $400 a month less than I was paying in Bath for a one bedroom flat rental.
It was a no brainer.
But what it meant was leaving a life behind. A life I wasn’t completely ready to leave. A life full of friends and laughter and wine
and intelligence and trading that in for a house and being closer to family.
But the tradeoff meant an estimated two months living at my parents’ house.
But the tradeoff meant an estimated two months living at my parents’ house.
I love my parents.
They’re interesting, quirky, intelligent, lively, opinionated people
whose said opinion I value highly and the opportunity to be close to more often was
a primary motivating factor in returning to the Pacific Northwest. But it also meant, as a woman who just turned
40 in October, who hadn’t lived in the same city as my family for over 12
years, I would be now living with my parents. In a small room. With my dog. Another sibling had moved home to finish her
degree and was in the active grind of job searching, so the house would definitely be
full. And to say that the whole scenario
filled me with trepidation would be a bit of an understatement. Not for how they'd do...but I’m used to my own ways, my own
time, my own schedule, my own life.
And so I moved.
Crated up the dog, boxed up my belongings, said my farewells and took
another leap of faith.
Which as we all know, I’m big on leaps of
faith.
I didn’t offer on the house I thought I would, the small
blue one with the trees growing through the deck that looked like a fairytale
writer’s retreat. Its beautiful pictures
belied a weary house in need of more TLC than I wanted to muster and a
lackluster interior. But I did offer,
the day after I arrived, on another house, a little green cottage with slightly Scandinavian exterior and an almost modern Craftsman-style interior with a
high ceilinged living room and a huge bank of windows that looked out into a
ravine of pine trees. The house I’d thought would be
mine didn’t call to me, but this one did.
I do believe houses choose people…. and so this one chose me.
And then the waiting game began. Dealing with finances and mortgages
and earnest money and inspections, agreement extensions and banks. In a house hunting purgatory,
waiting for the paperwork to be approved and for the boxes to be unpacked.
But in the last week or so as Christmas has arrived the
limbo of my life has started to wear me down.
Again, so grateful and thankful to be with family for the first time in
ages, but realizing also that this holiday season was passing me by. As my friends posted cheerful holiday
pictures on Facebook, friends literally worldwide, I
sat in my room working or walking Otis on the beach, occasionally watching TV,
trekking off a meager few times down to the city to see a couple
friends or sneaking an extra glass of wine after the parents had gone to bed, feeling like a naughty child. It wasn’t
that the company wasn’t good or I wasn’t happy to be here…but I’ve been stuck
at the starting line of a race I’m eager to take, waiting impatiently for
the flag to be dropped. Waiting. Not choosing.
Not doing. Just waiting.
I’ve never been good at waiting.
And so as my friends were busy, flitting here and there, I’ve
felt time just ticking, watching the second hand turning, hoping it turned faster. I know in my
head it’s temporary. I know it’s only a
week or so to go before I can get going.
And in the next few days I know I’ll again begin to feel a sense of momentum as I can
once again start to plan and organize and dream with a feeling of reality. And I know these moments at home are actually
things I’ll cherish, precious time spent with people I love. But at the same time feeling greatly a loss of all
the things, and all the people, I’d left behind. And the sacrifice felt like it was becoming
hourly more acute. Thinking of my
friends merrily together. Thinking even
of siblings near and far with their children and their families. Feeling spread and torn apart and wishing there
were many of me that could be everywhere
and always.
And then they called me.
A group of merry revilers in Bath. Santa hats and paper crowns and sparkling
antlers. Who had been slightly
overserved but were all ever so charming.
And who wished I was there as much as I wished I could have been. They cheered me with their joy and their
silliness and, especially, their rousing rendition of the Pogues Fairytale of
New York, which they said to have been dedicated to me.
I’ve decided to choose which lyrics they meant most
heartfelt.
But in that moment I was loved by my friends. And missed.
And not forgotten.
I move a week from Friday.
So, again, the waiting more or less is ending.
And starting tomorrow the limbo also more or less ends and the doing begins.
But I needed that. I needed them.
So thank you Santa, you two sparkly reindeer and you two crowned
fairies. For caring about me. For remembering me. Thank you for my soliloquy and for, as I
said, the best Christmas gift… for being my friends and for sharing with me
your Christmas cheer.
And in the end….it was a very merry day.