An Awareness
I realized today that I love my house. Which I knew. But I didn't know in at least one important sense: I love it enough that I feel sad about the house we're renting in NH.
The NH house is nice enough. Many people would find it charming. And the location is, without question, amazing. But my house is one of a kind. Magical. Gorgeous. Cozy. Well proportioned. Inviting. Easy to be in. Easy to manage. Easy to love.
And while I think that most of the pace of things is tied to things my beloved is working through, today I admit that a portion may be my own reticence about leaving a place I home so much. The pragmatic me understands that the devotion I feel to this house, and the joyous experience of living in it that I've ultivated and indulged, have fine-tuned my sensibilities such that locating and / or creating something even more fitting is an inevitability. I get that. I do. But such knowing is an inadequate defense against the sense of loss that looms.
So, I resolve to bask in loving this house. To lie on the floors and hug it. To feed the wood and steam the tile floors. To record the moments spent listening to books while puttering and tending. To be extravagant in my attachment to it. To glory in the comfort of being in bed with TB, watching the light of the moon trail down the comforter as the great horned owl calls out the night watch. Sybaritic me. Gratitude girl.
I think that this is the only cure, this flagrant worship, this soaking of cells and consciousness. Anything else smacks of denial and denigration and will, I think, only prolong and embed the pain. Besides, joy is more fun.
Just thought I'd mention it.
-Dot
Copyright 2007 Dot's Stuff. All rights reserved. Home sweet home.
The NH house is nice enough. Many people would find it charming. And the location is, without question, amazing. But my house is one of a kind. Magical. Gorgeous. Cozy. Well proportioned. Inviting. Easy to be in. Easy to manage. Easy to love.
And while I think that most of the pace of things is tied to things my beloved is working through, today I admit that a portion may be my own reticence about leaving a place I home so much. The pragmatic me understands that the devotion I feel to this house, and the joyous experience of living in it that I've ultivated and indulged, have fine-tuned my sensibilities such that locating and / or creating something even more fitting is an inevitability. I get that. I do. But such knowing is an inadequate defense against the sense of loss that looms.
So, I resolve to bask in loving this house. To lie on the floors and hug it. To feed the wood and steam the tile floors. To record the moments spent listening to books while puttering and tending. To be extravagant in my attachment to it. To glory in the comfort of being in bed with TB, watching the light of the moon trail down the comforter as the great horned owl calls out the night watch. Sybaritic me. Gratitude girl.
I think that this is the only cure, this flagrant worship, this soaking of cells and consciousness. Anything else smacks of denial and denigration and will, I think, only prolong and embed the pain. Besides, joy is more fun.
Just thought I'd mention it.
-Dot
Copyright 2007 Dot's Stuff. All rights reserved. Home sweet home.