It’s been a week.
Last Monday, I signed paperwork to buy a new home. We slept on an air mattress that night because the movers couldn’t make it back until Tuesday morning.
And that was perfectly okay.
Because it was done. Finished. The home was ours. The trials and tribulations that led up to last Monday are for another day. There were plenty of them. I don’t remember being even half as stressed when we bought the last place, but we survived so I’m letting it go. For now. Until I feel like ranting against the strange behaviors of humans again.
Not tonight though.
Tonight is for the beauty of finding a place that calls out for you.
I haven’t written in months. No, years now. It’s been at least as long as the new job title I acquired two years ago, perhaps longer. Definitely longer.
This home inspires me.
As I sat on the deck this afternoon, reclining in a chair to watch the clouds drift by, I realized I was narrating in my head. Something that doesn’t happen often anymore. It’s been a great fix when I can’t sleep – I narrate a scene for Crank late at night as I try not to stare at the ceiling – but tonight I was doing it simply because.
Because there was something I wanted to say. A story to weave. A sense of peace with words and environment I haven’t felt in a while. Because I am a writer.
The clouds drift lazily by overhead as you stretch, languidly, like a feline. You notice the different layers of white in the sky and think back to the day when you could’ve named them. Some clouds fluffy and thick, others thin and sparse. As you watch, two crows do aerial acrobatics, fighting over… something. You don’t care what.
You think back over the last week. You’ve seen orioles, cardinals, hummingbirds, and one curious groundhog who stood on his hind feet to sniff the air when he spotted you watching from behind the glass of the walkout basement door. You watched each other for several minutes before he ambled into the bushes, unconcerned about his new neighbor.
This is a place that could bring back the stories. This is a place that could sustain peace.
The last place served you well. Very well. But you couldn’t relax like this. Not outside. On that deck, you barely rocked your head to one side to see two yards down. That house, the neighbor “warmed up” his oversized pickup truck for several minutes before tearing out of the neighborhood like he drove a street racer. That house had turkeys, though this one still might. They say a moose was spotted here once. You don’t want to tangle with that, and you’re fairly certain the cats will chose the same cautionary path should they spy the leggy but onerous creature.
It was a week ago that you signed the papers, and every day you’re grateful that you were stubborn, refusing what should’ve been nice homes, insisting on continuing the search. It was a week ago, that you laughed with the sellers, despite the stress leading up to that day. It was a week ago, that you wondered about the gruff nature of the man purchasing the home that sheltered you for the last decade, but relaxed when you learned he wasn’t the one that would live there. That energy wouldn’t invade the home that treated you well for years.
Today, swallows race each other across the span of the lawn to disappear behind the roof of the house, and dragonflies bigger than you’ve seen dart by on the way to do whatever dragonflies do. Today, you relax, listening to the night critters as twilight falls and the clouds thicken, and you smile.
Writing started as a catharsis to pain, but it doesn’t have to be that way. Writing can be inspired by much more if only the writer opens her eyes to see the inspiration.
Could this be a fresh start? I know Crank and Mike have been busy in my thoughts, but I can’t promise anything just yet. This laptop tells me the battery is crap, and my job still requires a lot of mental energy, but I haven’t surrendered. Not yet. Not anytime soon. I am a writer. I only need to put words down on the page.