it's a slow goodbye.
like ripping off the bandage at a painstaking pace, and i feel every inch.
this week the sight of my back-splash brought me to tears. not just because it's a beautiful rustic tile that was given to me by a dear friend, but because my husband and father installed it. i remember creeping up the stairs after some time in my studio, nervous at the state i would find my kitchen and the male members of my family. i was imagining furrowed brows and frustration, but was met with two giddy men, running off to the garage to cut the tiles, celebrating each proper fit with glee. it was beautiful. it was magical. and therefore, i don't want to leave it.
what makes a house a home? during the process of buying a house we've toured many, and found quite a few devoid of "home". is it paintings and photos on the walls? a well-worn couch with blankets thrown on the arms? is it the sense of memories seeped into the floors, the pictures taped to the fridge, school newsletters pushed in a pile? a well-loved garden, a well-used oven?
my heart lies in the grout, my sweat in the clean bathrooms, my intentions in the balls of yarn peppered around my living room.
i will miss this home, or, at least i expect to. i anticipated missing our last home in Cloverdale, but i didn't. maybe as soon as the new house becomes filled with us i will be able to let go of this little one on the prairie. and i will only miss what i missed the last time - my friends.
today the spring heat turned to humidity and climaxed in a thunderstorm of epic proportions. the kids were out in the backyard when it hit, and they hid under the fort, taking tentative trips out of the shelter when their sibling sent them on a 'mission' to retrieve an item from the lawn. the missions became more and more complicated, requiring longer lengths of time in the deluge, until finally they gave in and ran screaming and dancing through the rain drops. there are moments when i feel that my life is achingly beautiful.
i've packed up my studio, leaving out a few art supplies just in case. heaven forbid an artistic emergency arises and i'm caught with my paints down. the basement is in boxes and this weekend we start the main floor. i am loathe to live in an empty home: we'll move out a bookcase and i'll hang a painting. it seems silly, but also imperative - i need beauty to last as long as possible.
someone asked me the other day "are you looking forward to anything about the move?", which made me realize that i've been a little dour as of late. of course i am. i truly emphatically am. i am dreaming of our new church, of the new friendships that await, of the creative adventure that comes with buying a home, the beauty of North Vancouver in the summer, the redemption of old friendships. i highly anticipate God continuing to show off His faithfulness and generosity, and i can't wait to again watch in amazement as He cares for my children. i am hungry to see my husband return from work excited and satisfied. i am hungry for my giftings that have been lying dormant to be resuscitated. \
i'm looking forward to it all!
however, this is my time to mourn. so i will. soon enough my cheery reflections will again fill the page. in the mean time i'll cry over my backsplash and my bleeding heart in the front yard will bloom my insides out.
this week our robin's eggs hatched. four little chicks with heavy heads and lidded eyes. a friend told me they will take three weeks to mature and then will leave the nest. which puts their departure the same time as ours. a mass exodus. a flight. a beating of our baby wings into newness and needed maturity. we'll all jump together.