Thinking alot lately about the changing of residences,
exploring what that means, to me and those to whom
I am the closest. Am I particularly enamored of where
I hang my coat, or is it just habit? I am not, and have
never been, overly fond of this current residence.
It's old, semi-remodeled, in need of constant work.
The yard is too small, the basement filled with too
many spiders and exposed pipes, wires, beams, drains.
The living room is, essentially, one long hallway.
The bedrooms are tiny. The kitchen is big and is fairly
functional, but the alley garage is crumbling, leaking, slumping.
(Although my upper-level, my own personal bedroom en suite ,
completed three years ago, is lovely, with a balconey
and a view of the rising October moon and an occasional sunset.)
I love my neighbors, aka my Brandon Street Family.
Can I leave? Absolutely. Do I ever long for long-lost houses
of my past? Never. Don't get me wrong -- it is with infinite gratitude
that I return to my own home each evening. It is a privilege.
As is the proximity of so many treasured friends. I can't imagine
having raised my sons in a better place. But in the end,
it's a structure with a roof and four sides. It houses me and my sons.
And I'm ready to dust out the rafters, vacuum the heat vents,
cart away the used-up memories, box up and save the good ones.
The planet, in spite of our global mindset, is still a big place,
with a lot of room. It is with open arms and a clear mind that I approach
my upcoming new life. Open arms, and joy.