I really love this house. Not the one we're buying, though I do like it, and believe that I will grow to love it over time. But I really love the house where we're living now.
Where we live now is just the right size for us - small enough to deep clean top to bottom in 5 hours by yourself. Small enough that we can hear each other in any part of it. Big enough that when we each need space behind a closed door, we can have it. Big enough to host a friend and they can have their own bedroom. Big enough to host a New Year's Eve party, but small enough that it still feels intimate. I love the way we bump elbows in the bathroom and circulate for mirror space. I love that the kitchen is big enough for dancing, and the living room is big enough for handstands, but neither room is too big. You don't get lost in them when you're there alone.
Our new house is big. It has an upstairs and a downstairs and a basement. I am glad for the basement, but I loved (in some peculiar way) the way it felt to slide down the ramp to the root cellar during a tornado last month. It was strange and scary and fun somehow. In our new house, there is a living room and a dining room and a family room and two bedrooms all downstairs. Plus more rooms upstairs. What are we going to do with so much space? It feels scary and not cozy. It feels too big, too much. I don't want there to be a whole room just for one couch. It's important to me to have free space, but not too much.
I've been avoiding packing. Sure, I packed a few things, here and there, things we could live without. But I just like how our things fit so neatly in this space. How, after a few times rearranging, we achieved the perfect flow from our front door to every room in the house. (It's easier when there are only five rooms in the whole place.) But now we are going to be two people swimming in a big house. I don't like it. The real reason I want to put in a door to the garage is because I like being able to stick my head out and see Caleb when he is doing things. I like that this whole house (the current house) is on one level.
It's hard to make decisions about things like paint and furniture arrangements, and to be honest, I don't want to arrange furniture. I like how it is where I live now. I don't want to think about paint. I like the color of my walls now.
But we can't stay here. We have to move, our landlord told us.
So I cry just like I cry in conjunction with all the major life events, out of respect for the beauty that has come before them, and recognizing that a time has come to an ending. I cried before I finished 8th grade. I cried on the way to my high school graduation. I cried before I graduated from college. I cried before I got married, also connected to a move. And I cry now, before we buy a house. I accept that this is my way of processing things, of mourning seasons of life. I let myself cry.
And I try to remind myself that after all those other times when I cried, beautiful things happened afterwards. There's a rhythm that's been established. I will try to let it carry me while bidding farewell to a place I love.
Where we live now is just the right size for us - small enough to deep clean top to bottom in 5 hours by yourself. Small enough that we can hear each other in any part of it. Big enough that when we each need space behind a closed door, we can have it. Big enough to host a friend and they can have their own bedroom. Big enough to host a New Year's Eve party, but small enough that it still feels intimate. I love the way we bump elbows in the bathroom and circulate for mirror space. I love that the kitchen is big enough for dancing, and the living room is big enough for handstands, but neither room is too big. You don't get lost in them when you're there alone.
Our new house is big. It has an upstairs and a downstairs and a basement. I am glad for the basement, but I loved (in some peculiar way) the way it felt to slide down the ramp to the root cellar during a tornado last month. It was strange and scary and fun somehow. In our new house, there is a living room and a dining room and a family room and two bedrooms all downstairs. Plus more rooms upstairs. What are we going to do with so much space? It feels scary and not cozy. It feels too big, too much. I don't want there to be a whole room just for one couch. It's important to me to have free space, but not too much.
I've been avoiding packing. Sure, I packed a few things, here and there, things we could live without. But I just like how our things fit so neatly in this space. How, after a few times rearranging, we achieved the perfect flow from our front door to every room in the house. (It's easier when there are only five rooms in the whole place.) But now we are going to be two people swimming in a big house. I don't like it. The real reason I want to put in a door to the garage is because I like being able to stick my head out and see Caleb when he is doing things. I like that this whole house (the current house) is on one level.
It's hard to make decisions about things like paint and furniture arrangements, and to be honest, I don't want to arrange furniture. I like how it is where I live now. I don't want to think about paint. I like the color of my walls now.
But we can't stay here. We have to move, our landlord told us.
So I cry just like I cry in conjunction with all the major life events, out of respect for the beauty that has come before them, and recognizing that a time has come to an ending. I cried before I finished 8th grade. I cried on the way to my high school graduation. I cried before I graduated from college. I cried before I got married, also connected to a move. And I cry now, before we buy a house. I accept that this is my way of processing things, of mourning seasons of life. I let myself cry.
And I try to remind myself that after all those other times when I cried, beautiful things happened afterwards. There's a rhythm that's been established. I will try to let it carry me while bidding farewell to a place I love.
I'm glad you let yourself mourn, it's important to mark the end of something and the start of something else.
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