We’ve moved out of dreaming, scheming, buying, paperwork signing, and planning. We’ve moved out of the home that witnessed us grow up and into a family of four. We’ve moved out. We’ve moved in. And now that we’re home, the realness of empty walls and new spots that don’t quite fit the old stuff is weighing heavy. The big home that will hold the bulk of memories is here, but we’re sitting on the side of the scale where memories are light and small and the bulk is still to come, but can only happen with time. We’re in that spot of finding your back roads and ways home, how to best find the freeway, and what grocery store is the closest walk. The “what room are you in? I can’t find you!” and “where are the mugs again?” . And the blinking and wondering… ” Is this all really … ours?” When do we call the landlord?
We are in our little dream home. And it’s everything and more. Each little nook we keep finding and falling hard for.
but still . . .
Our little town got an uncharacteristic ten inches of snow the days before we moved. But we did it anyhow. Through drifts up to my knees we hauled boxes down the ramp and into our home.
But maybe more importantly, in drifts up to my knees, we moved out of our old home.
About seven months ago we out grew this house. The girls wanted doors to close, space to run inside, space for art and painting and learning to cook. The walls felt low and heavy, the arrangements felt stale no matter what we did, and our ache to make a space our own in every way started to burn big. The desire for renovations. Responsibility. Walls to come down, in hearts and structures, got huge.
After we found out about the Little Lettered Dream Home, I mentally moved out. I was unpacking my couch in the new roomy home, I was hanging fresh art on walls, painting bright white and deep blues. Only I wasn’t. I was living the day to day in a home I had hit bursting point with. I was so frustrated with it’s lack of function. With the muddy yard, the galley kitchen, the too small garage. I was out of love with the very things that drew me to the home three years ago. We were bumping our heads on the ceiling, our bodies into each other at every turn, and my want for some expanse and privacy was growing big.
Everyone knew where we lived. It made for a magic porch, but it also brought with it some fears and a little too much exposure. I had been craving a little anonymity. A bit of privacy. Less fishbowl, with still so much light. I wanted the Little Lettered Dream Home that I had fallen so hard for.
When we picked up the keys from the seller. I got in the car and tears just streamed and streamed and streamed. It was real. Hard and poky in my hand I held our future. I had moved out of the renters unknown. And into the “my kids will grow up here. my next baby will be born here.”
I moved into the office for writing. The extra deep bathtub to reset. The renovation dreaming and planning. The big shop for Charlie to make all his own.
So in a whirlwind of help, extra arms, love, and speedy movement… we painted everything, did a few repairs, made a lot of ‘homeowner’ purchases, and packed up our whole lives. And moved.
In the hubbub of making a new home, going to Ikea, unpacking and building everything. . . I almost forgot our old little red home.
Till we got a message from our old landlord “I trust you guys, you can hand the keys over to the new tenants (our friends, by the way), as soon as you’ve cleaned it out.”
…and it hit like a ton of bricks. Or harder.
The first Home we had. The one that I drove up to started sobbing the moment I saw those giant flowers in bloom and a little space to call ours. The space that rescued us from a very bad neighborhood, from homelessness and confusion after we had jumped in faith and given notice with nowhere to go. The place the held our first garden. The space that grew more strawberries than we could eat. The space that hosted endless backyard playdates, the birth of so many friendships, and probably hardest to close the door on of all. The birth of my second baby. The redemption of birth and the expansion of my heart in the most profound way I have ever experienced. And we were locking the door behind us.
As hard and weighty as it felt to close the door behind me and leave the memories to age in my head and rattle around inside the house that is our home no more, I am so excited to close that book and start this new one.
The one with growing girls, and gangly legs, with big talks and bigger decisions. The door to school, and babies, and reading, and new growth is open wide. And we are here to breath it in. This home empty of our memories but full of 102 years of other peoples heart is big.
And pretty beautiful too.
Love, love here we are.