The Things that Make Us Who We Are

When we put our 10-year-old home on the market close to a year ago, I boxed up all of our family photos, favorite pictures of barns and hearts and all of the little things that made our house a home of our own. At the time I thought our house, which I dearly love and always have, would sell quickly. I am a fastidious house cleaner and my contemporary home was built with my preferences for a long life lived right here, forever.

Things are not supposed to be what make us happy, but now that I have been living without my things, decorating my walls, occupying my counters and lined up along the windows that are open to the woods beyond our backyard for many months, I am thinking differently.

Who doesn’t make judgements based upon the way a person’s house looks the minute they step foot in their (used to be) adorned front door? In my house, family photos (used to) line the wall going up the stairs that lead to my two boys’ bedrooms.  From newborn babies to graduating men in caps and gowns to artwork whimsically colored in a third-grader’s hand, my life (used to be) laid out in neatly measured rows of varied sized frames that ascended the wall to the second floor. Now bare.

Barns made of stone-colored dove gray with a hint of blue cast against a clear sky and framed in maple wood (used to be) lined along my walls in the entry and down the hall to the back door. Now bare.

The green walls and Corian counters to match that people (used to) say we were brave to decorate our house with, but that I meticulously coordinated from kitchen towels to place mats to dishes and throws and pillows and rugs were torn out months ago and replaced with a double kitchen sink that is “practical” and quartz countertops that are neutral.

Well-worn wooden floors that (used to) hold the scratches from my last three German shepherds, all gone way too soon, are now smoothed over and covered with rugs to protect them and pulled up in a hurry when showings are scheduled.

My bedroom is blue, my bathroom is gray and my towels are boring. My books are boxed up and my encouragement printed on scrap paper and stuck to my mirror and attached with magnets on strips in the kitchen are now inside drawers or tossed into the trash.

Most days I struggle enough to figure out who I am and where I’m going. With nothing around to remind me of the person I was (mom to babies and boys, wife, baker, lover of hearts and owner of German shepherds named Koryo, Nitro, Echo and Otto) and am (mom to men, and dogs Zoey and Cisco, and still a wife and a baker and a lover of hearts), it is extra hard sometimes to feel comfortable in this place I’m at presently.

Blessedly, I am in the midst of watching all of it take shape somewhere new, where soon I will hang our family photos on newly-painted walls; and freshly-laid floors await sharp doggy nails; brand new double ovens, the crumbs of hand-mixed cookies; and finally, new memories, that will help me to remember that really, it is all tucked inside, safe and sound.