I open the door to my small home office (really a tiny cave in which to hide that everyone inevitably makes their way into). Papers of all sizes are strewed about all over the floor in small bundles, haphazardly organized into categories. I step lightly in the midst of them all, my heel crinkling this or that, and find my small square into which I sit crisscross-applesauce (I can’t help but continue my Kindergarten-teacher name for that). I don’t know where to begin. But here we are, still sitting on property that we are now ambivalent about but the rental lease and land mortgage clocks are starting to tick-tock louder in our ears.
I look around while comfortably cupping my hot motherwort-sage tea in my lap. First, there are the piles of potential house plans. We are restrained not only by the allotment given to us which with to build, a narrow strip between wetland buffers and neighbors, but by all of the lessons we learned in our initial downsizing (you’ll need to search “downsizing” in the blog search bar for loads of that adventure). How much space does a person need? How about a whole family? What about a growing family? What about a family in which children are beginning to fly off? Do we make room for heirlooms? How much house do I want to keep clean, keep, repair, and pay mortgage and tax on? What does what we keep–or not keep–say about us, and do those things reveal what is truthful about our beliefs? And then…in whose eyes do those things matter? Do those eyes ultimately matter in these kinds of decisions? All of those boxes still–after many years and many moves–in storage for Someday, Passing Down, What Ifs? Do we keep those, still, for Someday, Passing Down, What If? You see the dilemma, and how many gallons of tea I wash down before I even begin to touch any of these pyramids of papers.
It sounds ridiculous to me, in a “just pick a house and make it work” kind of way. But I’m still working through how and why I ought to MAKE something work versus considering the lifestyle we desire to live and having the house serve THAT. I don’t want unused rooms, wasted space, things and furniture we keep just because we “should” (according to whom, then, we ought to inquire). I don’t need a walk in closet when I could currently pack my entire wardrobe into a single suitcase. But, you know, I really want that room for my floor loom, our 4×9 foot dining room table, and the eight beds we still use.
Other piles: ideas for various rooms from books and magazine cuttings. Everything from windows, walls, colors, cabinets, materials, and lighting. Then there are the piles of “this goes nowhere in particular but I like how it makes me feel when I look at it”, such as texture, plants, and wood grain.
I go through the house plans once again, and decide to copy the main living areas from one of the plans onto grid paper, practically lying now on top of it all with a ruler and pencil in hand. Piano? Check. Dining table? Check. And so forth. Meanwhile, I email the septic design company, and contact the surveyor for further work. An hour goes by, the babies are asking if they can wake up now from their rest time, and it’s time to start puttering in the kitchen towards supper. I stand up and sigh. So much decision to be made, but it’s trepidation mixed in with hopefulness and excitement and a bit of fun besides. Ready or not, our cloud is moving once again, and so we shall move forward as well.
Blessings,
