It’s difficult for me to give voice to a lot of things but wanting to sell this house is not one of them. Yesterday’s post will not have surprised anyone in our family. Having lived in one place for twenty-five years, there’s always something, and these days, water must be falling from a ceiling to get my attention.
But there was something so sad about writing it down as a truth instead of complaining about it.
I did used to love this house, but at some point it became ME against IT. If I were wiping off the counters, choosing fabric for new pillows, or putting new photos in old silver frames, I was giving up time I could be reading or writing. After all, there were also children to be tended.
What led me to something I didn’t know by way of a truth I already knew were Katrina’s words about it all being inseparable.
I will never separate my writing from my living or my living from the work of tending whatever is in front of me in the moment—the bread crumbs on the counter, a friend in need, the pink geranium’s falling petals, the words that arrive so slowly on the page. It is all one, as continuous as the dawn sky.
Putting yesterday’s words in front of me instead of just having the feeling inside me enabled me to see this truth in a different light. I can now address it. Writing the words and reading them over has changed the nature of the beast.
By disconnecting from the house, I subtracted instead of added. Today, in the back of my mind, I’ve been wondering if I want to change that.