My husband and I have been running like crazy people the past two weeks. Aside from work and family activities, we have been moving our office into our home. I underestimated what a transition this would be. My husband confessed to some anxiety about this transition, since for the past 40 years he has arisen each morning, dressed and headed to an office. Now, considering Jim is 63, its apparent “going to the office” has been the thing he has done more of in his life than literally anything else.
While my husband and I are under going this transition in our lives, a thought popped into my head- So is my house! I have lived in my house for 30 years this fall. I say this with a tad bit of chagrin as I fear being regarded as “old lady” on my street, much as I viewed a few of my neighbors the day I moved on to Choctaw Trail. I was pregnant with my son, who is now in his final year of a Ph.D. program and engaged to be married.
Perhaps I’m feeling a bit nostalgic, even sentimental as I ponder my home and all it has housed in the last 30 years. It has…
-Welcomed home a new baby
-Cared for my dying mother
-Welcomed my husband and his son, absorbing their belongings and all the emotions accompanying the blending of families
-Endured the joys and tribulations of teenagers transitioning into adults
-Transformed into a kind of commune last year during a sabbatical taken my grad student son, his fiancé, and Labradoodle
And now it is absorbing the relics of yet another transition (desks, awards, office supplies…) as we move toward working “virtually” in our new home offices. As I approach this Thanksgiving, I’m realizing one of the things I feel grateful for is my home. My home, its roof and walls, has provided shelter and sanctuary to my family and me. People often tell me my house looks like a folk art museum with all the color and funky art adorning its walls. But a quality I think I value the most is my home’s elasticity, as it has expanded and contracted welcoming and saying farewell to the various stages of our lives.