Week 8, Annie's Thoughtful Thursday.
I love my house. This has been my home since 1992. I love the many rooms, the high ceilings, the big windows, the secret places, the obsolescence, the shelter, the protection, the welcoming acceptance.
The last kitchen update happened in the '30's with this certified, genuine Youngstown Kitchen. (To be fair, I did buy a new refrigerator and stove this century to replace the mid-century models.)
I love the shabby, run-down, worn-out, authentic vintage vibe. It's not artfully distressed, it's been authentically distressed by time, worry, and neglect.
The walls are plaster, the ceilings are tin,the pipes are copper and iron. The light has been pouring through these windows, the snow has been piling up on this roof, and people have been cooking dinner here since 1861.
I used to have the attitude that very bad things happened to me in this house, as if the house had something to do with it. Still, though, many bad things did happen here. But my house has always kept me safe; good times and bad times. Like suffering the abuse of a narcissistic spouse, breast cancer, and my kids' mental break downs.
These days, there's this guy who has invited me to make a life with him in a new house and a new town. I said yes, and I have made a timeline to move by the end of this school year. June 2017. In the mean time there is back and forth, here and there, and over night bags in the car. I've been scattered and discombobulated. There is yet trail blazing and bush whacking through my son's recovery and independence. And the slow mourning of leaving my house.
This is hard work.
This is precisely where I need to be today.