(Thus spake Emily Dickinson.)
So, moving is not one of my favorite activities. And finding a home in a place that is 1,158 miles from my current home, well, that’s stressful, because, you know, I’m down here, not up there, and I’m not sure when I’m going to be able to get up there, so really, couldn’t some person up there who lives in the perfect place call me and say, “Here you go, it’s yours for free, and I’ll send my Learjet tonight to pick you up so you can come take a quick look. Also, I’m cooking you beef stroganoff.”
Why can’t that happen?
(I love beef stroganoff.)
In the meantime, it comforts me to mull over the home I want some day, maybe in a few years — maybe the next move after this one, or the move after that. There’s no rush. But once I make that “final” move, I’ll spend years growing into that home and making it mine. Here are some of the things I dream of:
- Wind chimes. The big ones with deep voices.
- A cat.
- An excellent paint job in an excellent color, like navy blue, eggplant purple, or forest green. I love forest green houses.
- Built-in bookshelves.
- A good kitchen for cooking and bread-making.
- A room with no phone or computer, with the comfiest writing chair the world has ever known and a window through which I can’t see much other than trees and sky.
Does where you live now feel like home? If not, what’s the home you imagine?