I am peering into this space, seeing its wide white margins and curated words and photos and it seems like a kind of luxury.
Our house is still on the market, and until the sign went into the yard and we pinned our dreams and plans to another address on the map, I would have told you how much more serene I had become, about breathing and presence and peace.
The reality is less Zen. The reality is leaping in response to the text signal on the phone, as it might notify of a showing to a potential buyer. The reality is a house cleaned hopefully and fearfully, every day. A disgruntled cat, yowling from her carrier during uneasy rides in the car, and pots of touch up paint and endless trips to Goodwill.
Worse than the busy hands and restless feet is this monkey mind of mine, as it jumps from calculations and calendars to endless speculation about the motivations and desires of a nameless faceless buyer. What does he want? What does she see? Beneath all of it runs a constant supplication, for someone to fall in love here, as we did, eight years ago, with these very boards and bricks, these wide windows and old trees. My mind settles on little else.
John says we have rowed away from shore in the boat of this pursuit, and we do not aim to turn back. We are in the midst, with nowhere to go but forward. We have come some distance from the place we pushed off from, the shoreline of our life in this space. Every day, as I polish this house’s surfaces and tidy its rooms, as I place meals on the table and see what color gladiolus have opened in the garden, I feel that distance. Our hearts have packed their bags, steadily as the pile of salvaged boxes grows in the carport. We are here and yet not here. We may still be seated, but we lean forward.