We live here:
And have been doing little updates here and there. I painted the dining room from peach to petosky stone:
We finally added blinds and got rid of the overbearing curtains. It was all so temporary. This house that wasn’t supposed to be temporary has become a project of “until we can afford to do more” and we live in the middle of stages of progress.
Which: touche, life, is also where I am personally.
Last week I got super frustrated and instagramed this shot:
F is for completely frustrated. I think it was also for Friday? I can’t remember that far back, lets not split hairs over it. You be the detective with your calendar and brain cells. But that’s the day I decided to paint this dining room. It cost me zero dollars because I already had the paint and supplies. It just cost me time, which I have a lot of this summer and yet not enough of. And it’s a cycle of crazy making proportions and waiting, always waiting.
We moved in to this house and waited a year before we did anything about announcing our address change. There were personal logistics to that for a long time. Some privacy issues, some other issues. And we, I say we – but I’ll speak for me, I felt like hiding. I wanted everyone to feel comfortable coming over but … not just yet. I needed a season. Or four of them.
And we’re making progress on this house. A renovated basement, landscaping, curb appeal. Line by line this little house is becoming the very place we’ve been dreaming up before we ever knew it existed and it takes time, sure. And money. It takes resources and allowances of more than currency.
But I got crazy last week looking around knowing what the end result was going to be and feeling completely powerless to effect lasting change. Everything is temporary. It is, I mean, that’s true. This is all temporary. But the changes we’re making “for now” and the “stop gaps” of not bleeding money vs. doing what we can for the time being started to feel like a never ending tick tock on a clock I couldn’t see.
I went a little ape-shit.
And I painted my dining room. In two hours. I had two hours, I probably had 4, but it took me months of having paint in the basement and being afraid I’d completely screw up the house by choosing the wrong paint to even TRY to start.
This dining room is the only room in the house that we’re not changing. We’re not knocking walls down or removing flooring, windows or doors. We’re not adding anything to this dining room or expanding it to a larger living area. This is the one and only room that will literally keep it’s footprint. It’s the one room in this house that wasn’t waiting for something larger to take place before we made it ours.
And I kept waiting to make it ours. Because what if I make it mine and don’t like it? What if I choose the wrong color scheme, the wrong window coverings? What if I wake up every morning and regret this room?
This is where we live. Right now, today. This is it.
It could change tomorrow (don’t tell me that) but it could. It always could. And I’d be ok with that, I’d be ready. But what I wasn’t ready for was wanting to stay.
Being ok with the temporary, being ok with the madness of waiting feels like a meditation I’ve been forcing on myself for 5 years. And things are finally sinking in. They’re fluid, flexible and able to change – but they don’t look so much like DIFFERENT at every turn any more. It feels the same with different colors on the wall.
And this is where we live.