(Minute is my new favorite word lately, I think. Sorry. Or not sorry. Too busy worrying to parse it out.)
In these times, destitute of peace of mind, I find two things helpful: writing and thinking about the positives. This at least temporarily gets my mind off the stress and helps me remember why I'm putting myself through such a terror-inducing process in the first place.
In the new house, I won't have to worry about whether the landlord is going to charge us for replacing the carpet that the cats have demolished. I'll just have to either live with it or replace it myself, which means no reliance on someone else's fickle policies. (Thankfully, there's little carpet in the new place, and it's not in the most prone place: doorways.)
In the new house, there will be a back door. That door will lead to a cool brick patio and large green yard, where I will walk after work in the summer, barefoot, to water green tomatoes into red bloom. I will pick and eat cherry tomatoes under the shade of an old maple, then fill a bird feeder with seed and wait for orioles and bluejays and cardinals - maybe even hummingbirds - and I will think of my grandma.
In the new house, we can build this and paint it like the forest, or sky, or magnolias. I will sit there to write while watching the birds.
|A daydreamy window bench|
In the new house, not everything will be perfect. Things will need to be done, money will need to be spent. It will take months to unpack, to feel comfort, to fill the space with a unique and personal scent and touch.
It will not be perfect. But it will be good, and Spousal Unit will be there, and it will be home. And that's all it needs to be.