I remember when I first moved into this house. There were so many things it wasn't. It was not in the bucolic setting I had pictured for myself. It certainly wasn't a style that had ever appealed to me (still doesn't) Other than a vaulted ceiling in the living room with floor to ceiling brick fireplace, it had no particular charm. But what it did have was enough to make up for any deficiencies it might have had. For years, the moment I closed the front door and took off my shoes, a sense of serenity came over me. It was, for some inexplicable reason, a peaceful place.
I watched my life change in this home, experiencing many of life's pleasures and my fair share of pain. Over time, it went from a space that nurtured me to a series of rooms I neither needed, nor used. Then came the greatest sadness of all when my son told me, one cool, crisp autumn day, that he and his family were moving over 2,000 miles away. "You don't mind," my daughter-in-law told me as I tried to absorb the news. Of course I cared. I would have stretched out on the ground, holding onto his pants leg, gluing his foot to the ground if I thought it would keep them here, but in my heart of hearts I knew this was their time, their lives, their family and their choice. I had no right to hold them back.
As the day approached for them to go, my son called to tell me he would have to spend 50% of his time in New York, transitioning the business from here to his new home base over the better part of a year. Would he be able to stay with me during that time, he wanted to know.
With renewed purpose I redid his old room, painting, shopping, primping and prepping, filling it with photographs of his family so he would be more at home when the miles separated them. To this day, this is one of my favorite spaces in my home. It makes me smile every time I open the door, even though as life would have it, he never actually spent one night there.
Sweet! May just take you up on that offer some day!
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