The days are long and full of tactile things ~ the quiet of studio work, yoga twice a week, homemade bread, neighborhood strolls by myself, good books*, sunshine, yellow tulips. (And, as always the familiar cadences of the daily challenges: dirty dishes, spilled coffee, vacuuming again, walking the dogs again, lost tempers, fatigue, wood stove mess, ants in the cat food, the mysterious something smelly in the fridge. You know. The balances of Normal Life.)
Collecting empty boxes for the move, answering calls from strangers who might end up being our tenants in our present house, planning for the new house (we sign next thursday). Visions of what furniture goes where in the new place float through my head. The yellow velvet couch in the great room, in front of the fireplace? The enamel-topped table in the kitchen corner as a journal/coffee spot? A few extra loveseats to be thrifted for special out-of-the-way nooks, for reading and writing and sipping tea and chatting and thinking and staring out the windows. White walls, lots of white walls to reflect sunshine. Mirrors to hang. Rugs to unroll. Fiestaware to unpack. Two dogs and a cat to introduce to their new stomping grounds. Watermelon seeds and grape tomatoes to plant. Garden plants to move, herbs to divide, bulbs to tuck in. Mystery sprouts to identify and delight in. Bat boxes to build. Vines and pricker tendrils to clear. A path to trim through eleven acres of trees. All my terra cotta mint pots to edge the wooden porch. A baby belly to sun. A new library to explore. A lake with whom to make an acquaintance.
We are beyond excited, in the realm of happy contentment. There is nothing to do but wait.
What do you love about your house? What makes it feel like home?
*Currently, The country of the pointed firs, by sarah orne jewett