I’ve been struggling with how to write this for weeks. in fact, just now as I wrote that I got choked up. It would be easier to just close the tab and do a google search for Geico Owl rather than write this. At least then I’d be laughing. Instead, I’m trying to let go of our house. The only house our daughter and dogs have known. The house where we’ve lived for over 11 years. The house that’s we’ve turned into a home. A very lovely, comfortable, totally-us home.
Besides our childhood homes, we’ve lived in this house longer than anywhere in our lives. And we’ve created a life together here. It’s hard to imagine living anywhere else. When we walk through other houses, evaluating layout and room sizes, I always remember what it was like to walk through our house the first time. We were young. Just 32 and 29. We weren’t married. We didn’t even have real furniture.
And know we’re looking again. For our next house, that we can turn into our next home. For the house we’ll hopefully retire in. For the house our daughter will call home. For the yard our dogs will run through. For the deck where we’ll watch the sunset and the kitchen where we’ll make dutch pancakes on Christmas morning.
But before we can find the new place, I still have to say goodbye to this place. To the view of the river from the front yard. The trails, the road, the eagles, fox, racoons, oppossums. To the backyard where daughter spent hours playing on her climber, running down the hill, planting beside me. To the back deck, which newly built, is my favorite Sunday morning reading spot. To the kitchen, which we gutted and has pumped out huge turkeys and platters of sushi. Daughter’s bedroom where I rocked and changed and sang and laughed with my favorite girl. The TV room which has been a movie theater, a dance studio and a deep dark forest of pillows all in the same night. The vaulted living room with soaring windows and a view that can’t be beat. The master bedroom which carries memories of it’s own. The master bath which we also gutted and turned into a sanctuary from the stresses of the world. The loft and office where we’ve created and painted and yoga’d and read. To the basement that I scrubbed the day we moved in and daughter painted just months ago.
It sounds silly, saying goodbye to a house. But I feel like I have to let go. Somebody else will take care of it and make it their own. Maybe they’ll paint walls or finish the basement. Maybe they’ll have better luck with the thick, rich soil in the garden. Maybe they’ll bring a new dog home and watch him run through the backyard ears straight back.
The house will be fine without us. And we’ll be fine without the house. So, goodbye 4516. Thanks for everything.
I’m in the thick of an online class/experience right now called Mondo Beyondo. It’s hard to describe, but it’s all about exploring our dreams. And not the dreams that happen when our heads hit the pillow, but the dreams for your life, your hopes and fears and wishes and, well, dreams.
It’s encouraging, it’s enlighting and it’s even been fun. I’ll share more as I wind down the road.
But watch this.
And read this.
I’ll see you on the other side.
The Danish writer Isak Dinesen is quoted as saying:
“All sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story or tell a story about them.”
Working on it, Isak. I’m working on it.
I found the beginning on this blog post and realized I should finish it. I can laugh about it now. And you deserve a good laugh.
We were eating dinner the other night, husband, daughter and I, while little dog tried to avoid big dog. She is still wearing the cone of shame and has no idea why he’s avoiding her. He was mildly successful, hanging around under the table where she can’t fit. While she’s really just trying to reach a chicken nugget rather than trying to torment him.
Suddenly, between bites of yogurt and bounces in her chair, daughter announced, “I have to go potty!”
Most of the neighborhood heard her declaration and she promptly announced she wanted me to come with her.
We went into the small bathroom, the one that desperatly needs to be remodeled. We were followed by two dogs. Little dog, still horrified, scurried under the toilet, and I dragged big dog out with me when I was told to “Leave and Close The Door.”
A few minutes later daughter emerges, chasing little dog through the dnining room.
“Bogey, Bogey! Stop!”
She’s carrying a wad of toilet paper. Bogey can’t be caught.
“S- Why is he wet?”
She doesn’t answer.
And then it registers.
She peed on the dog.
I don’t know how. I don’t want to know how. But I want him caught. I want him bathed.
Poor little guy.