The longest I lived anywhere before this house was my childhood home. Other than the one year my mom had us live somewhere else to rent out our house (I don't remember) and the two years I lived in the college dorm, I grew up in that home. Once Ed and I were married, we moved, on average, every two years. For nearly 15 years.
Then, I bought the house I'm in now with the money from a second life insurance policy Ed had from one of his teaching jobs I didn't know about. When I'm extra resentful and angry about how hard it is to live and raise two kids without his second income, I challenge my feelings noting Ed & I would likely never have saved that much ($90,000) for a down payment. But, the ongoing material and financial impact of losing a partner who truly was a partner and I miss dearly that also took with them another income in one of the most expensive cities to live is not what this is about.
The kids and I will have lived here 12 years this summer. For the last two or so years, I've had the hankering to move. My hunch is that a move would force changes I haven't had the inspiration or energy to deal with, like all that clutter that's collected when you stay still and children grown up. Or, the maintenance the house needs that isn't critical but still costs money. Like the hardwood floors. Or, the trim in each room, which only highlights how many rooms need painting. Including those from when I did the upstairs remodel 11 years ago that I still haven't finished, or the painting in the basement after retrofitting the house 2 years ago.
There's so much left undone. I've gotten quite good at not seeing it all. That is, until I consider having people over, which hardly happens now, since the before Covid times.
The hardest to not see is the overgrowth of the trees in the front and back yard. I brought a tree company in to get a quote on pruning and it was over $4000.00. When I asked them to break down each piece so I could prioritize, they said they couldn't. So, okay, not working with you. And, it's June and everything is still growing.
Anyway, everything is overgrown. And there's crowding between trees and bushes. And, there's branches that brush against the cars when we park on the street. The branches from one tree overlap other branches from other trees the way all the big cardboard and junk falls over on the Christmas lawn decorations and bikes we never ride in the garage.
It all feels like too much. Because it is. It's all too much. Stuff. Crowding. Expansion in an enclosed space. Most days I am just outside myself, looking in. Detached. I see *that* person: the one who doesn't see their house. Doesn't see the mess, the clutter, the overgrowth. Because I keep putting off dealing with it, waiting for an opening to deal with it. Waiting for the energy to tackle. Bargaining with myself when I get a burst of energy to tackle just a bit of it at a time, even though I desperately want to tackle it all at once, like living in that British home makeover show, Changing Rooms, that Ed & would binge watch. Give me a week, I'll clear it all out. That's the fantasy. Truth is, when I have a week break, which is rare, I want to sleep or play.
I turned 50 this year. And, it's been a rough year. Facing mortality is no joke. I am slowly realizing that a lot of my energy for life the last ten years has been held in hope for the future, for what could be. It's what drove me at work, what has justified spending a ridiculous amount of money on my kids K-12 educations. Now, as I see my body changing and slowing down (one knee surgery, three foot surgeries, menopause pounds), there's less of my future to work on. And, I'm selfish, because I am still wanting to create a life that Ed & I dreamed about. I hold onto the remnants of a habit of being that works towards this life I can barely see or articulate anymore, probably because I need to be able to say, look, the life I ended up with was as good as, the one we dreamed about and were working towards.
All the stuff and the overgrowth is hope shrapnel.