A Post In Which I Mention Nothing Automotive

I am not always very forthcoming about major life events, and this blog is no exception. There is not enough of a cloak of anonymity for me to reveal that which you would not get from me in everyday conversation, and generally this does not bother me. However, one event approximately eighteen months ago did impact the progress of this blog significantly. My family moved, to attend to some long-term health issues plaguing several close relations. Since theirs are not my stories to tell, I probably won't be discussing much of these separate situations here. It's taken me over a year, though, to comprehend just how significant the move was, even though it was to a community and home that I have know most of my life. All told, the physical move was a distance of fewer than forty miles. Psychologically, it was like moving from one continent to another. The move was planned, reasonably well-executed, and has all sorts of advantages for both my immediate and extended family, and on the whole has turned out well. It brings me joy to be back in my childhood home and closer to the people and places that shaped me. Despite all this, I gained a reasonable commute and lost almost two hours in each day that otherwise would support the "extras" in life ... including this blog. I've gained some of that time back; taken it, really, and now am picking up the pieces of what I dropped to make the move happen and my children thrive. I moved a lot as a child, and while I can pinpoint very specific strengths that this history gave me (adaptability, curiosity about new places, a predilection for travel), I also know all too well how painful the experience can be. All told, I finally feel as if we have come through to the other side. There are still a few significant loose ends, however, not the least of which is our previous house.

We still own our former home, and are completing renovation work that we began (irresponsibly, perhaps) the first weekend we moved in and when I was six months pregnant with Miles. I work close to the property so I check in frequently, and the neighborhood is very close-knit and vigilant. This afternoon I stopped by to pick up a few items and to check on the status of the work that will hopefully render the home fit for sale. (Wisely, we finally gave up on doing the drywall and interior trim work on our own). It is so hard, though, to pull into that driveway and not experience a visceral rush of expectations. It is a beguiling hallucination. As I open the car door (really, that's just a casual reference) I expect to hear chickens conversing in the yard and the rush of greeting dogs coming to the door. It is my home; it is no longer my home. The kitchen does not smell of cooking or contain the chaos of children. The garden is a bit wild, even in its dormant period. The air is still, quiet and dusty. But the light, the same late afternoon winter light that we saw when we made an offer on the house, and that I love about both the home and the location, the light is still the same. I couldn't do it justice in either words or pictures if I tried; you have to see the Finger Lakes upland light that glances off the lakes and bare winter fields to know what I'm talking about. It was that light that filled the bedrooms of the home most afternoons with warmth and potential. It was that light that I would wake to after napping with my babies, when we both fell asleep as they nursed. It was light that would find its way behind closed eyelids, gently prying me away from sleep and towards an evening of dinner and baths and bedtime stories. It always catches me off-guard and leaves me wondering what I really miss. I certainly don't think that life was as idyllic then as it appears in retrospect. We fought, grumbled, fussed about money, ignored ongoing projects, yelled and fell into all the traps of most couples and families. But my babies were tiny in that house, my big dog was alive in that house, and it was the center of our family for about seven years. It would be easier if I could let go cleanly and turn it over to new residents, but we can't quite yet, and so I won't stop missing it yet.

It is not a home that I ever expected to be nostalgic about. It is an unassuming ranch with drafty windows, a crawlspace (ugh!), one bathroom and one-too-few bedrooms. I suspect that what I need is to become reacquainted with that light. Physically, it is there. I am starting to find it in early mornings, with dawn over a different lake, in a different room, with a different arrangement of family. It bothers me that I don't have a plan to make sure that everything turns out fine, and that all loose ends are tidily secured. That isn't real life, though, and as attractive as the intimacy of a former home is, ultimately it is empty of where I am now. Still, it contains so much of where I have been.