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Well, I did two loads of laundry at the Bungalow last night without causing a flood or a fire, so I consider that a hopeful sign. Still terrified of the beautiful stove, but then if it’s heard anything of my culinary history, it’s likely terrified of me.
There is still so much to be done before move-in, and, as I just told a friend, while it’s not a money pit, it is certainly making me house-poor. I try so hard not to resent the fact that I completely furnished and accoutremented one house already, but when I suggest taking anything from what is now ex-Pat’s house, I am met with resistance to the point that it’s less costly to go replace whatever it is than to engage in the emotional battle for a pair of pruning shears.
Last night, though, at 11:00, as the laundry was finishing, I lay on the area rug in the living room – the rug so soft that Kelsea and I have named it God’s Cat, and the only thing in the living room besides a lamp and a 5-foot tall spoon – I felt at home. Somehow, I was reminded of my parents’ house – there was something comforting and soothing in the space around me.
Yes, it felt like home.
There will be other homes in warmer places, maybe even on a boat someday, but for now, it will be nice to be home.
Photo title: Dog Preserver
White Bay, Jost van Dyke, British Virgin Islands.
Quote of the day: “The bird of paradise alights only on the hand that does not grasp.” – John Berry
