Why does working on the outside of my house make the inside different? And by different, I mean better.
I have theories. Of course.
It’s not all about the house.
It’s probably about me.
Bet you didn’t see that coming did you?
For six months I have beleaguered about being sick (five rounds of antibiotics), having two houses to pay for and worry about, moving from one of those houses (that I loved dearly) and in to someone else’s house-trying to make it my own. Not to mention regular old family stuff.
Personally I think the being sick for six months was the worst of it. My mind would race through things to do and accomplish. My body, it had other ideas. My brain could only address what the body was willing to do. Body not so willing.
So finally what is now the other house, is sold. One less worry. I have been a whole week plus without an antibiotic and doing okay.
I was committed to doing something that would make a change. Make things feel like mine (in marriage terms I mean ours, for blog terms I speak possessively). I am going to feel better and do ….stuff. So I did. Went to Tennessee. Spent time listening to live music that I wouldn’t have made time for here (but should), watched a niece dance her way to the World’s, rode bikes and found some beautiful scenery and met some kind people. Checked out where Abe Lincoln was born. Ate way too much ice cream and way too many hamburgers.
And enjoyed it all.
Came home. Now, the work begins. The house that belonged to others and is occupied by others (note: my daughter who house sat for us sent me a message after one night telling me my house was haunted. Duh.) is now going to be transformed.
So for four days we washed, scraped, painted, and cussed our way from a little bitty white house to a mammoth of a red and black house. You probably wonder how it grew to be so big? Painting every square inch of it by hand, three times around, and it grew to a beastly size.
For four days I did not go anywhere but to Tim Horton’s for food and coffee. Or to Lowes to get more stuff to work with. I did not ride my bike (I know!) or do anything that pertained to wants or fun. Though I have to be honest and admit I really enjoyed painting the house. I did have fun seeing it transform.
There is something possessive about touching every part of your house and changing every square inch of it.
At the end of the fourth day as I sat on the porch with Husband, I knew I had finally worked out some of my own sadness and fears. Later when we went inside and sat next to the big front window looking out, I was still a little surprised to see the red wall. But all together happy with seeing it.
I left a place I had loved, a place I had helped transform and create what felt like my very first home. I am starting over, in a place that is already established and had been possessed by someone else. It was theirs. Now, now, it is fully mine. Working so hard on the outside of this house, changed the inside of me. It helped me get back to where I need to be. Comfortable with where I am.
Work does a body, and soul, good.