My House, My Home, My Haven

I'm trying so hard to remember.  But my memories are like little particles of dust, flitting around on a breeze--here and then gone, where I don't know.  I do know it was August of 1997 when we moved into this house.  At that time it was a bold new adventure and every day felt new and different and wonderful.  I had to pinch myself to believe it was really  happening.  My dream of owning my own home after living on the third floor of a tiny, sardine can-like apartment for thirteen years had finally come true.  Even when one of the former owners said to me, "You can do anything you want now.  It's YOUR house," I could scarcely believe it.  I kept going to bed at night thinking I was going to wake up the next day only to find out it was all just a dream.  I had "nightmares" for a long time that I was back in my old apartment and that same sense of dread and frustration swept over me.  Prior to that apartment, I'd lived on another third floor somewhere else and I can clearly recall walking out onto the rickety porch thinking, "Am I going to live here forever?  Is this all there is for me?  Where is my Prince Charming who's going to come sweep me off on his white horse?"

But back to the present. Now I have my house.  And as I walked from room to room today, I racked my brain trying to remember those first few days here.  It was so exciting I felt like a kid in a toy store.  I couldn't wait to fill these rooms with all of our things and maybe some new ones as well.  Unfortunately though,  today I can't remember exactly how I felt or what I was thinking.  I do know my kids were little then and they certainly added a sense of wonder and discovery to the whole experience.

But after I'd gotten past the initial newness and excitement, as always happens with human beings, boredom and same old sameness set in.  I struggle to feel those same feelings now.  Now it's just a house.  The rooms are not anything special or unusual.  It's just the place where we store our stuff.  And boy is there stuff!  Too much of it really.

But I don't mean to suggest I'm not grateful for everything I have.  I simply miss that "falling in love" kind of feeling one gets from having something new, something you've always wished for, something you've struggled to attain for many years and at last have managed to attain.  But like the person who finally gets that prince on a white horse--once you've got him, it seems that some of the thrill is gone.  Maybe for many people, it's the chase, the dream, the struggle that keeps them alive, keeps them striving, keeps them hopeful.  As long as there's a goal dangling around out there in the universe--there's a reason to get up in the morning, a reason to keep going.

I do like my house.  But I think I need to fall in love with it all over again.