Rolling Up My Sleeves

I've been in the new house for almost two weeks.

Two weeks.

I'm mostly unpacked, except the kids' room. So this weekend, I'm rolling up my sleeves and getting to work. Pictures will go on the walls. Shelves will be organized. Rugs will be bought for the garage/playroom.

Oh! I didn't tell you about that?

Let's just say downsizing two kids into one bedroom is a toy storage nightmare. Enter my sisters, aunt, and mom. A quartet of organizing fiends, they took one look at my freshly painted, freshly scrubbed single car garage and announced, "This needs to be a playroom and craft area."

They were right.

I'm dividing my garage in half horizontally, turning the front bit into storage for camping gear, tools, gardening supplies, and other "garage" items. the back half, the half nearest the house, is going to store books, toys, crafting and art supplies. And, maybe, one day, a treadmill. The idea is the kids will keep their toys in there, bringing in only what they want to play with. And I can set up my sewing machine and crafting items, freeing up valuable living room space.

Not too shabby, no?

Of course, with the ice cold cement floor underfoot, I need to buy a few rugs to warm it up. I'm envisioning a recording studio, hodgepodge look. Which is so not me, it actually makes me laugh.

Then, there's the tough job.

I need to go back to the Old House and start going through everything to prepare for our garage sale.

That's going to be hard.

If I thought the house was sad before, it's forlorn now. The empty rooms seem cavernous after living in my tiny house. The garden I took such pride in is a wasteland of dead and dying plants. The chicken coop sits empty, the girls absorbed into my aunt's flock. Cobwebs hang from the sun faded tables flanking the front door. My old bedroom reflects a lavender light from the painted walls - a stark contrast to my current rental-white walls. The hallway is scarred and scraped from moving day. The kitchen - that place I spent so many hours canning and cooking - is limp and stained.

And yet, in a weird way, it's still home.

It's going to be hard cutting those final ties. It feels a lot like a death, sorting through the remains of a marriage. Holding up this vase or that picture and asking, "Do you want this?" Dividing up what was once whole, closing what was once inviting.

Every now and then I feel my chest close in panic. I feel the tug of depression, pulling at my heart. I push it aside. I paste on a smile. I fake it until I make it.

How long does it take for a new place to feel like home?

How long does it take for the past to release its grip?

"You need to plant a garden now."

"I was going to take a couple months off. Regroup."

"I think it would be best for your mental state to plant now rather than later. You need to make the new house feel more like home."

Maybe that's what I need to do. Sink a few bulbs in the ground, plant some herbs, get my greens going, start making this place my own.

After I unpack the kids' room.