I love our house. I love that we have a place that's our own, where no one can tell us what to do, where we have space to spread out and freedom to be creative. I love it.
That being said, so far I haven't been able to get out of my short-term mentality. Normally, I descend on a place, work furiously until it's exactly how I want it, and then, thus settled, feel like I can begin my Real Life. But with a house it is different. A house is an investment, a labor of love--a journey, not a destination, if you will. But I still see this place as a short-term stop, and I want it to be DONE. Now. The fact that it is not done has stopped me from "living my life," whatever that means, feeling at home or being productive or what have you. Were we here long term, it wouldn't feel that way. It would be a journey, with twists and turns and unforeseen curves along the way, and I would delight in that and take my time. But we're here for a few more months at the most, and the work to be done weighs on me like a mini-albatross.
So why did we buy a house, you say? If we weren't planning on settling down? Number one, it's an investment in the financial sense. Our mortgage is cheaper than rent. And with an FHA, we put less down on the house then we did on our car. So it just made more sense, especially in a city where houses are going for practically nothing. Plus I was pregnant and needed to feel the ground beneath my feet in a way I never needed before, someplace with a foundation that felt like home. Trouble is it's taken months longer for it to feel like home than usual, if only because it consists of about 800 more square feet than I'm used to. Not including the yard. Did I mention the yard? Oh my heavens the work that is a yard. We've basically just let ours go. Our "flower bed," if you can call it that, is home to weeds the likes and size of which I have never seen, weeds I am afraid to approach, weeds with long complicated names and a particularly aggressive nature. I leave them alone.
But I digress. The point of this is that I've been sticking my little toe in this blog for months, testing the water, but never taking it seriously--or anything having to do with my creative, inner life--for months, waiting until I felt At Home and Real Life could finally begin. But yesterday I finally threw up my hands. This house may never be done the way I want it to be before we leave it. But I am not going to let that stop me from writing every day, and from doing what it takes to feel like myself again. I need it. Daily maintenance, piles of laundry, wild dustbunnies--unfurnished rooms and unpainted walls and unhung pieces of art--all of it be damned.