We are looking for a new home. Somewhere with a little more room. One more room. A room in which I can work. A room of my own. We have begun looking, seeing our first last week. It wasn’t right. It was the smell of it. A home has to smell right. It smelt damp, unloved. A little mean. It is going to take some time, I think. Well, it has to be here. The world is no longer my oyster. Well, it could be but I choose to narrow my focus, at least externally. He needs to be here. At least for the meantime. So we work with what there is, what we’ve got. Should we write a list? All those pros and cons. What do we want, what do we need? Light. Warmth. Space. Quiet. Beauty. A tall order? Do we envision the same space, he and I?
Years ago I moved into his house. Years ago. Eighteen years. His house in Cambridge. I was escaping and he took me in. I brought colour, order and turned it upside down. We laugh about it now. Out went the dried flowers, the golf trophies, the curling photographs. He was tolerant. I made us a home. It was nice. Now I bend. I am willow.
That house was small with only a chink of sky. I like to be high up. Like now. I just don’t know. Can we find a new home in this town that meets our needs, wants and aspirations? I don’t know. So what can I do? Remain open? Try not to say NO too quickly, wait and see. Wait. See.
I have been lucky. Such wonderful spaces. Made into homes. Home. A place to daydream, Bachelard called it. A space for those dreams. May it come. When it is ready. We can wait. I can wait.