Where’d ya go, sister?
Friends, Romans, Countrymen. Sisters. Lend me your eyes. If any of you remain to read (hello there Maurya darling, far far away). I feel I must explain where I am, lately. What I’ve been up to, why my voice here has been…diminished. Trailing off to a single monologue a week.
(Aside: The weirdest thing happens when I claim the floor for myself. Even here, even though I’m all alone in a morning kitchen with a laptop. It’s like I’m a character in a movie; the archetypal sweetheart ditz who finally gets the podium, with impossible explaining to do [aside within an aside: and what is up with that? after two and a half decades of silly movies, you’d think the sweetheart ditz characters would get that telling the truth from the beginning will save them all sorts of trouble by the end]). I have the floor, and I am overwhelmed with this ridiculous urge to tell a tall, irrelevant, unbelievable phish tale. And clog dance. Because I have an audience. I do sometimes clog. No lie.)
The urge left me. Whew. I’m right here. I haven’t gone anywhere, yet. My garden is showing signs of the cold (zinnias browning, zucchini fading fast), but I am warm and happy. My daughter Maurya is back in school (Hawaii again). Finding herself. Michaelyn pays her own rent, and wonders if she can truly afford to feed her cat. Meisha is living gluten and dairy free. She eats mostly nuts, bananas, and the occasional apple betty (made with coconut oil vs. butter). Ezra has a guitar and is working on defined abs. He went to Homecoming in a four hour vest that took me ten to sew (a fine and pleasant misery last Saturday). Nora is getting dressed; can’t wait to see what she puts on today. My dog is outside, wishing she was inside where she could whiffle out buried treasure in the bathroom garbage and shred it all over the house. Everyone but Nora and the dog are at school. My husband is at work. And there’s white trim paint under my fingernails and probably just north of my left armpit (not kidding…I get paint in the craziest places).
There has been plenty to write about as summer wound down. I have lots of pictures of summer’s happenings that I could have illustrated with. There is still plenty to write about now (the white paint under my fingernails, for instance). But. If I were to post any pictures at all, I must (MUST) accompany them with at least a few Words. Well chosen ones. Because of all things, I think I care about words the most. How they frame, how they give context. And I…though I’m here and warm and happy, I have been more or less wordless lately. Life’s pace has been too terrific for me (I’m well aware that paces are relative and varied). I’m thinking all the time, but haven’t been able to form cogent paragraphs from the chaos that whirls in my brain. I need time to process, and then…the wedding is over, the kids are back in school, Maurya is leaving again, and Ezra needs a vest for Homecoming and We Decide To Sell Our House. So we can Build Another One.
The Not So Big House
I don’t flatter myself that I’ve got enough eyes trained on this post to actually achieve a for-real cliffhanger, but I may haphazardly simulate a fake one. I will be writing about this, the House Adventure. When I can. Hopefully more often than I’ve been writing for the last few months. We have yet to finish the house we are in before we sell it. Paint, mostly. And decorate. I can share that. I need to…it’s sad that after living here four years in a not-quite finished version of my dream house, we’re finishing it so we can leave it. Writing will help me process, find closure. And then, I’m also working on the design for our next home, which will be much smaller and in many ways simpler than this one. Hopefully still Dreamy. A Not So Big House makes sense, with our recent launchings, and for economic reasons…though while we’re in the mud-caked throes of building it, I have no doubt we will ask ourselves again and again why we ever left our snug, too-big-and-expensive hobbit hole, and we’ll whine about handkerchiefs and second breakfasts quite a bit. It probably won’t go according to plan. It probably will evolve into an unbelievable phish tale. Maybe words will come easier in the paint splatter. We shall see. In the meantime, thank you for your eyes, Romans and sisters. You can have them back now. I’ll see you again soon.
Comments on this entry are closed.
I absolutely love this post. i have been cruising your blog and it has kept me entertained. Thanks so much for such a fantastic read
Karen Schulz recently posted…Upcycling a bean bag
Thanks Karen!
Very entertaining for me to read what you all have to say. Love it. Today I must go paint someone else’s house, not my own. Speaking of living in a house and never finishing it….I worry about finishing because it means we will probably be moving soon! But I dream of fairies coming in and painting trim, knocking our walls, building new ones, laying new floors, “making all my dreams come true”. But alas it has yet to happen. Love you . Mother.
Yes, finishing a house is a loaded prospect in our culture, as I recall. Every time we made it pretty, we moved. So it makes sense that you’d feel a little hesitant about finishing. I vote for the fairy-finish at your house too. And then you could move to a cute little cottage with an easy yard that someone else had finished, so they could sell it to you. Wish I lived closer…or had pixie dust. Love you Mom.
This is one ride I’m thrilled to be on….okay, I won’t be on it at all…but I loves me a good home story as much as a good home, phish tales and all. Write on! Husband and I had many a Home Depot date when we renovated our previous home. Haven’t yet got the courage…nope, that should read MONEY…to do it again with another house; therefore we are, at present, in limbo land. Yup, tenants. No must does on our list for now…although I did paint the walls last year in luscious, creamy BM shades. Best of luck with the listing, and the selling. Hope it goes smoothly.
Thank you Sue! We shall be tenants too, between the sale of this house and the start to finish of the next. Hopefully coinciding with the holidays…it will be nice not to have “must do’s” for a bit. I’m crossing my fingers on the listing and the selling. It’s hard not to feel vulnerable…will people like the work we did? Did you show pics on your blog of those luscious creamy painted walls? I’ll have to run over and look.
It’s the story of The Three Little Pigs all over again. As you know, originally there was one pig who built three houses ~ but she didn’t keep a blog and that detail, having never been documented, was confused so now two of her sisters get credit for building a house as well ~ the flimsy, frivolous houses were attributed to them. But really, they were all products of one pig. I probably don’t need to explain The Big Bad Wolf, but in case you’ve forgotten, he is, in fact, a paint-fume induced delusion ~ a metaphor for faulty building fears; he is the whisper of the subconscious in the dead of night: “Oh, dear. I’ve blown it again!” Anyway, the good news is, you’re on you’re third house, which, if you follow the pattern of the little pig should mean you are on your last house, which, though it may need to be smaller should be adequate to comfortably accommodate two of your sisters. Also, it seems relevant to remind you in the scurry of preparations to not neglect the hair on your chinny-chin-chin. And when you’re designing, don’t forget to add a chimney, for obvious reasons.
Love,
Leah
Noted, sister. (= You have said it all. Down to the chimney, and the chinny chin chin. This third house will probably not be my last house, because its foundation will be in Utah soil, nowhere near Walla Walla. Which is where I dream of hosting my sisters in all our dotage. But, it will have a chimney. And a place for a sister or two to rest her weary head (mattresses minus the pea). Love you.
Wow, you have guts for sure. I am not sure I will ever venture to move out of the one house that I have now. I do love your house though, so a bit of mourning here…I am excited to see what the new house will look like and feel like. You have the most creative and artistic fingers, it will be lovely. Loved reading this.
I don’t have guts, actually. Every morning I check, hoping, but there’s this hollow, loose feeling where my guts ought to be. So I fake it. Flex my abs, pretend there’s guts underneath. It works, usually, but sometimes, deep in the night, I wake in a cold, clammy sweat… whispering lines from “The Raven”. (= Thank you for visiting and leaving your comments Sara. Bolsters my gutlessness. (=
Too bad the painting didn’t start while I was there. I LOVE painting. Ron thinks it’s the fumes. Whatever the reason, I’m with you in spirit. Happy house planning.
Too bad for sure! Why didn’t I think of that? Enlisting the world’s best paint pro. I’m with Ron…it must be the fumes. Painting for a couple of hours for one or two days can be reflective and relaxing. But long paint projects are destined to end in psychopathy. Experience has taught me this.
Lynaea marie wilson Brand! Where are you moving ( as if I have a right to know.)
Not far, Merribeth. And we have to sell first. Frank brought home the wrong trim last night…ending in a Home Depot to-and-fro (also, a mini-date for us) vs. wrapping up the backdoor trim…rainclouds gather today… and so it goes. At this rate, we’ll be selling the house to someone for Christmas. (= Or never. (=