I haven’t written much about our home renovation lately. There hasn’t been much to report. The guts of the house aren’t all that interesting but warranted the most work. There’s plumbing now. I’m assuming the electrical works too. The floors are as level as they’re going to get. There are wonky bits and off kilter trim, but all that adds character, right? We bought an 83 year old house for its charm after all.
We are starting to see progress on the renovation. The rooms are painted. Cabinets are installed. Light fixtures are hung. The tell tale signs of a real house are peeking through the dust and timber. We’ve been displaced since April. Our stuff is in storage. We’re crammed into a small space that isn’t our own. The novelty of paring down and living an adventure has worn off. Bird and Deal are craving their own space, and I hunger for a kitchen I can spread out in. We lack privacy, and extenuating circumstances make us feel less at home now. Most of all, we just want to be home.
There is something comforting about being around that which is familiar. We miss our stuff. I’m not talking about superficial items. I mean our personal effects. We miss our photos and books and things that warm us. We do have each other, of course. Perhaps a little too much of each other. We are all feeling the effects of being in limbo. Out of place means out of sorts.
We are done. We all crave a place to call home. We need to resettle and build a life in our new house. It’s coming. We have much to be grateful for. We have all the important things, the priceless things. But feeling that sense of home, that warmth in our hearts, is painfully absent.
Deal asked Santa to help. Are there any elves out there with construction skills?