The leaving, oh the leaving. My ex still lives - and my kids, half the time - in the house that held me the longest of any structure in my life. Maybe ten years is a common expiration? The house changed so much, my kids’ dad is also a powerful, and gradual, transformer: electricity, windows, plumbing, wood stove, deck, ADU… I work with plants. And it was the goodbye - over grieving years - to the garden I made there, and then the moving of what I could move, and the acceptance of death for what I could not, that challenged me most. I still walk in that house like a ghost: both sure of my way & irrelevant. I still pick figs in the yard and visit our beloved Fuzzy’s grave. Every inch of that soil moved through my fingers. I’m glad the kids get to stay. I’m glad he does too. But the shell reminds me of who I used to be and what it took to grow out of her.
Mmmm, Devon. This moves me. I hear you on your fingers in the soil, a communion with that particular earth. Wild for you to be revisiting it in this capacity--"like a ghost" as you said, a whole new kind of relationship. Thank you for sharing with me, with us.
I'm outside in coastal mid coast Maine with a lovely fire in the solo stove, contemplating how I could ever relinquish the cabin house where I last had my dad. Where I came with his ashes to add to the Atlantic Ocean. Where we lived without technology each summer break for decades. My eldest was a fetus here. All three kids came up as often as we could get here from Baltimore. I saw my only Glock of cedar waxwings out these windows as they dined on apple blossoms one spring. But maybe it's time to leave? To thank it and share our gratitude with all the folks who passed through and enjoyed the silence and the trees. Thank you Hope
Hi Sarah, thank you for sharing those details. Whoa, what a place that holds so much for you. Roots matter. Wandering matters. Somewhere there is a middle way, and maybe different people taking one of those non-middle ways creates a larger middle way for humanity. It's all a seed.
Beautiful, Molly. What a tribute to Chris, and the life you lived in that space. This reminds me that we truly only have the present moment, so 'soak it up' as one of my friends frequently says.
I never miss houses I've lived in; I'm more interested in the changes to the outdoor spaces (gardens, yards) that inevitably occur and have been known to peek over fences :)
So so true. The only moment is now-- which for me, is sitting in my car in the dark in the rain waiting for my daughter to emerge from volleyball practice!
It's wonderful you can leave knowing your trees and land will stay and not be destroyed. Sad to lose the building you made, but if he's planning to take it down, and you want to make changes to the new cabin, any chance you could actually buy your house pieces back to re-use? Joining two traditions of loved house in one...
The leaving, oh the leaving. My ex still lives - and my kids, half the time - in the house that held me the longest of any structure in my life. Maybe ten years is a common expiration? The house changed so much, my kids’ dad is also a powerful, and gradual, transformer: electricity, windows, plumbing, wood stove, deck, ADU… I work with plants. And it was the goodbye - over grieving years - to the garden I made there, and then the moving of what I could move, and the acceptance of death for what I could not, that challenged me most. I still walk in that house like a ghost: both sure of my way & irrelevant. I still pick figs in the yard and visit our beloved Fuzzy’s grave. Every inch of that soil moved through my fingers. I’m glad the kids get to stay. I’m glad he does too. But the shell reminds me of who I used to be and what it took to grow out of her.
Mmmm, Devon. This moves me. I hear you on your fingers in the soil, a communion with that particular earth. Wild for you to be revisiting it in this capacity--"like a ghost" as you said, a whole new kind of relationship. Thank you for sharing with me, with us.
It will all become clear
I'm outside in coastal mid coast Maine with a lovely fire in the solo stove, contemplating how I could ever relinquish the cabin house where I last had my dad. Where I came with his ashes to add to the Atlantic Ocean. Where we lived without technology each summer break for decades. My eldest was a fetus here. All three kids came up as often as we could get here from Baltimore. I saw my only Glock of cedar waxwings out these windows as they dined on apple blossoms one spring. But maybe it's time to leave? To thank it and share our gratitude with all the folks who passed through and enjoyed the silence and the trees. Thank you Hope
Hi Sarah, thank you for sharing those details. Whoa, what a place that holds so much for you. Roots matter. Wandering matters. Somewhere there is a middle way, and maybe different people taking one of those non-middle ways creates a larger middle way for humanity. It's all a seed.
Beautiful, Molly. What a tribute to Chris, and the life you lived in that space. This reminds me that we truly only have the present moment, so 'soak it up' as one of my friends frequently says.
I never miss houses I've lived in; I'm more interested in the changes to the outdoor spaces (gardens, yards) that inevitably occur and have been known to peek over fences :)
So so true. The only moment is now-- which for me, is sitting in my car in the dark in the rain waiting for my daughter to emerge from volleyball practice!
It's wonderful you can leave knowing your trees and land will stay and not be destroyed. Sad to lose the building you made, but if he's planning to take it down, and you want to make changes to the new cabin, any chance you could actually buy your house pieces back to re-use? Joining two traditions of loved house in one...