Yesterday Tom and I signed about a million pieces of mortgage paper. Then I read a front-page article about what a fun spot our new neighborhood is, which good restaurants are moving there, how residents are angling to keep it cheery and walkable, etc., etc. I came away from the article wondering if Tom and I might be buying the last affordable house in the area.
Well, let's hope everything goes through as planned. I don't know if I have the gumption to survive any more property-related angst. I've been casting my mind back over this past year: of living alone in Harmony, of trying to sell my beloved house and land, of dealing with all of the roof and water problems, of finally ending up here in the doll-house before Christmas, and then my dark winter of homesickness and tooth problems and generalized gloom and grief and estrangement. It was a really terrible year for me. I realized that I was sad, in the moment; but looking back on it, I recognize how much I kept trying to project a doughty "don't mind me; not a big deal; other people have it worse; blah blah blah" kind of self-deprecation and self-dismissal. I would never expect anyone else to brush off their grief, so why did I expect it of myself?
We are mysterious creatures in our ways and means, not least in how we're always trying to cut ourselves off at the knees.
Anyway, it took a year, but I am returning to the world. The Frost Place helped. The immigrant high schoolers helped. You helped. And now having a sense of the future helps. Tom and I pore over his kitchen plans. We lie on the couch talking about garden design. The inside will be his construction site, the outside will be mine; but we imagine the place together.