I’m lucky enough to have a great house. It was built in 1929 and is rich in detailed plaster, stained and leaded glass and original woodwork. It is roomy and cozy at the same time. By far, it is the prettiest house on a rather ordinary block of old houses.
I love this house, as do my kids; it is filled with more than two decades of wonderful memories. But I think about moving. I want a smaller house with a tiny yard on a livelier block; I want a new start. I would prefer a street with friendlier neighbors who I could have a beer with after work or on Sunday evenings. But since I’m not sure where I want to move — stay in the same city, try another side of town or move to another state — I’m in a holding pattern.
My house is too much a part of my security right now. I think maybe after this winter, spring or summer, I might know more about where I want to live. I ask myself if I should stay in this city where I have the most friends or head out for an adventure and make new friends. Do I wait until I retire? Do I see where my kids go? Right now, my son is in town and my daughter has another year of college about three hours away.
Meanwhile, my daughter has come home from college in the summer the last few years, but she won’t this summer. That will be another adjustment; I like her home in the summer. I welcome the fresh, young life she and her friends bring to this house. When she is home, the house doesn’t feel so big and empty.
I know I will never live in a house this stunning again, so I am not quick to leave it, to move on.
I’m literally looking for a sign as to where I should go after this. So far, nothing is clear. No matter how long I wait, I realize leaving this house is going to be tough.