Houses and Dreams

We met last night with the contractor who is building our new house.  We've been planning this house now for almost a year, and we put the project in motion when our offer on a gorgeous piece of land was accepted last March.  It's almost September - when we had initially hoped to move in to the new house - and we still haven't broken ground.  Every meeting that pushes that start date farther in the future makes me more anxious.

Of course, I'm much less pressured now that we're no longer at Middle Street.  Our current house - we call it Oakridge - is a palace compared to Middle Street.  We're all much happier here, but this was just intended to be another landing point on the path to the "new new new house" as my kids like to say.

Last night, though, when the contractor, Kim, came in with all the bids from his subcontractors, we realized we're going to have to spend a lot more money than we originally intended to build the new new new house.  Our meeting, which I had hoped would include scheduling a ground-breaking date, resulted in two and half hours of slashing this and deciding to hold off on that, and pushing the ground-breaking back to November, even entertaining the notion of waiting to break ground until spring.  I couldn't help but wonder, "Why are we doing this?"

I'm not one to invest this much energy into a house, and I am leery of the amount of precious time that will need to be invested throughout this next year - time that I might rather spend dancing or writing or tackling some other creative endeavor.  Can't we just consider staying where we are instead?  This is a beautiful house and a lovely neighborhood.  What's to be gained from moving yet again, other than a more convenient commute to work?

Just as I was drifting off to sleep last night, I answered that question as I remembered a dream I once had.  Or maybe I dreamed it again....  I was wandering through a huge house, barren and dark, where many rooms were cut off by tall, dusty iron gates.  I was alone in that house, and that house was me, at that time in my life.

Now, years later, I dream of a house filled with light and beauty, colorful rooms and wide-open spaces, beautiful gardens, and lush land where my kids can run and play.  This is who I am now, and it represents the abundant life I so gratefully share with my husband.

We need to build this home together, realize the dream that we share, even if it is a big investment.  Sure, we could just stay we we are and probably be satisfied.  But just being satisfied is not what makes up our dreams.  Not anymore.

Happy?

I’m crying again. Flo’s mantra from “Finding Nemo” is stuck in my head. Again. “Find a happy place, find a happy place, FIND A HAPPY PLACE!!!”

Neither is really helping me find a happy place. I’ve cried pretty much every day since I moved in with my husband. Not because of my husband, mind you. I’m deliriously happy to finally be with him every day. Can’t you tell by my puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks?

For awhile now, I’ve been blaming my discontent on this dilapidated old, filthy, cramped, hot, hardly adequate for the 6-8 more months of waiting until our new house is built house. It’s true that I’ve been unsettled here since we moved in, but don’t think this house is the whole story. Finding out it was infested with fleas, though, did just about lead to me having a nervous breakdown. You think I’m joking? I’m still amazed my new husband didn’t retract his vows and cut and run last Saturday.

I should really be kinder to myself. Our families are going through a heck of a lot: a marriage and blending households, moving – not just to a different house, but to a new town and schools for me and my kids, choosing flooring and light fixtures and 36” x 48” shower stalls, flea fighting… It’s no wonder I’m overwhelmed.

The hard part for me to understand is that I’ve been overwhelmed before and not been driven to the brink of depression and occasional hysteria. Exhaustion, maybe even illness I would understand, but not crying every day multiple times and feeling incapable of tackling even the smallest task. That’s not me.

Is it?

I took a sick day at work today. My sweet husband called it “a much-needed mental health day.” God bless him for having a long view and believing that we’ll enjoy a peaceful existence again eventually. Dreaming of the view from our back deck next summer helps a little, and I can sometimes escape the stress for a few minutes by reevaluating the paint colors and cabinet samples I’ve picked out for the new house, but I confess I’m worried that a new home – even a better temporary one – won’t help me find my happy place again.  Even here:

That’s because I know my happy place isn’t a place at all. It’s believing - knowing - that I’m going to be OK no matter what happens to me, no matter where I am or who I’m with. I don’t seem to have that assurance anymore, and I don’t know if it’s because I turned forty this year and my hormones are out of whack, or if it’s because I gave up my bohemian lifestyle for one that, by most people’s standards, is much more stable and comfortable.

Will I be happy being stable and comfortable?

Khalil Gibran says, “Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.”  It's from his poem, ironically, "On Houses."  It doesn’t seem to make sense for a newlywed bride building a dream house to be mourning for her old life, but, verily, I think I am.