I'm up early this cool Sunday morning, sipping my coffee and thinking about the day with excited anticipation.
We're trying to sell our house - the place we have called home for the past seven years - and today is our first open house.
We have found another house in the same town, one better suited to our growing family. It's isn't a huge change, as changes go. It's only about a mile away from where we are now. It's far from a done deal, though. If we can't sell our house at the right price, we will stay where we are. Right now we're living in a state of suspended animation; hoping we can get an offer on our house so we can make an offer on the new property.
My stomach gives a little flip-flop as I think about change. I am a person who likes control, and so much of what happens in this deal is out of my hands.
This whole process has been about doing my best and letting go of the outcome. The first part of that equation isn't so hard; I clean like a madwoman, muck out closets, clear off surfaces and hound the kids to keep their toys put away. It's the letting go part that is more challenging.
When we first found the new place, I was awash in desire. I needed the new place; it would change everything for the better. I spent hours obsessing about it. It isn't a straightforward deal; there are several moving parts that need to fall into place for the transaction to happen. My mind went round and round, thinking it through as though I could make it work by sheer force of will: first this needs to happen in order for that to work, then we need to get through that for that other thing to succeed. If all those things fall into place, there is still that other thing, though.
This has been going on for a while, too. We first saw the property back in the spring, and it became something we might actually be able to do in July.
It was all making me a little nuts. I needed to know, dammit, how it was all going to turn out.
I channelled all that restless energy into getting our house ready to sell. I tucked and straightened, waxed and polished, sorted and organized, all with a lusty feeling rumbling in my belly: gotta get it, gotta get it, gotta get it.
One evening, after spending the day sorting and cleaning, I sank back into the couch, exhausted, and gazed around our sparkling home. All around me were the ghosts of memories: the wall where Greta meticulously wrote her name in pen and then unsuccessfully tried to blame it on her two month old brother; the little step into the sunken living room where Finn learned to turn his chubby little diapered butt around and climb down; the yard where my Dad and Steve happily toiled for hours splitting wood to prepare for winter; the cafe curtains my mother lovingly sewed for our kitchen; the closet where I used to hide my booze; the bathroom floor where I sank to my knees and finally asked for help on one fateful August morning.
I love this house, I thought. And then it hit me: we are okay. No matter what, we're going to be okay. No matter where we live, there we are. Together.
Whatever happens is meant to be, I think. We'll do our best, and then see where the universe takes us.
I finish the last of my coffee, and smile to myself. This is going to be interesting, I think, my heart full of gratitude and peace.