"It is one of the perversities of my interior makeup that I so often become depressed just as
winter makes its turn into spring, and the longed-for moment arrives; the weather turns
pleasant, and one can walk out of doors without bundling up. But unbundling means exposure, a kind of vulnerability, and I seldom feel ready for it when that first balmy day arrives. Instead, I resist the good news of spring, lurking inside my house as if its still winter. My spirit suffers , my garden languishes, and my perennial flowers and herbs must struggle on their own with encroaching weeds."
Kathleen Norris in The Quotidian Mysteries
winter makes its turn into spring, and the longed-for moment arrives; the weather turns
pleasant, and one can walk out of doors without bundling up. But unbundling means exposure, a kind of vulnerability, and I seldom feel ready for it when that first balmy day arrives. Instead, I resist the good news of spring, lurking inside my house as if its still winter. My spirit suffers , my garden languishes, and my perennial flowers and herbs must struggle on their own with encroaching weeds."
Kathleen Norris in The Quotidian Mysteries
"Look at this." I point to the screen.
"What is it?" he asks as he sits down beside me on the worn couch.
"It was built this year. No one has ever lived in it. And look at the pretty kitchen!"
"It's small."
"But it's new." I plead.
"Wow. It is nice. Not a very big lot."
"I know. I just feel stuck. I know that anything we look at is going to mean a smaller lot...and most likely a smaller house. But I just want something new. Something without all the work. I just feel stuck."
The discontentment stuck with me throughout the night. When I woke the next morning it was still there. Hanging from my shoulders weighing my heart down.
I kept finding myself at the computer. Searching the screen for the perfect house. A new dwelling where everything would be easy. Shiny and new. More bedrooms. More bathrooms. A place where stairs don't creak and doors close properly. Something that won't fit the title of "Krooked Kastle".
But it's not about the house. It's not really. Is it ever?
The next day I apologize to him, "I don't mean to put that kind of pressure on you. It's not about the house. I know I'm just frustrated with myself."
I blame my other physical dwelling for my irritation. This body I've been graced with.
But that's not it either.
People say, "It's not about the destination. It's about the journey." But the journey can be so hard. The act of unbundling one's heart from the layers meant to keep it safe and protected. Becoming vulnerable. Getting messy. Allowing...imperfection.
To be continued...
"What is it?" he asks as he sits down beside me on the worn couch.
"It was built this year. No one has ever lived in it. And look at the pretty kitchen!"
"It's small."
"But it's new." I plead.
"Wow. It is nice. Not a very big lot."
"I know. I just feel stuck. I know that anything we look at is going to mean a smaller lot...and most likely a smaller house. But I just want something new. Something without all the work. I just feel stuck."
The discontentment stuck with me throughout the night. When I woke the next morning it was still there. Hanging from my shoulders weighing my heart down.
I kept finding myself at the computer. Searching the screen for the perfect house. A new dwelling where everything would be easy. Shiny and new. More bedrooms. More bathrooms. A place where stairs don't creak and doors close properly. Something that won't fit the title of "Krooked Kastle".
But it's not about the house. It's not really. Is it ever?
The next day I apologize to him, "I don't mean to put that kind of pressure on you. It's not about the house. I know I'm just frustrated with myself."
I blame my other physical dwelling for my irritation. This body I've been graced with.
But that's not it either.
People say, "It's not about the destination. It's about the journey." But the journey can be so hard. The act of unbundling one's heart from the layers meant to keep it safe and protected. Becoming vulnerable. Getting messy. Allowing...imperfection.
To be continued...
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