Growing up, our neighborhood was mostly wooded acre lots, so most neighbors weren’t usually very close – geographically or emotionally.
Especially after college, but really starting in high school, I was a bit of a nomad for a while. I always had a mailing address, but I was just as often somewhere else. Apart from Wroxton, I didn’t usually call anyplace home.
But now, my mortgage application is with the underwriters. The appraiser just left. I’ve got four painters’ estimates coming. It’s not official yet, and all my fingers are still crossed (well, not really, I’m typing, but you understand the metaphor) – but the point is, it’s getting there.
I’m about to not just have a home, I’m about to buy a home. My home.
This is, to put it briefly, a big deal. And one that I’m sure will knock me sideways and cause repeated spells of hysterical freaking out. Because that’s how I do. I know it’s full of responsibilities and expenses and probably a handful of lonesomeness.
But I love that it feels like a treehouse. I love leaving the windows open all day. I love eating breakfast on the deck and watching the sun rise over the hills. I love that every now and then my neighbors and I spend a day going in and out of each other’s houses barefoot with drinks in our hands and small children running around. I love how many of the stars I can see at night.
This isn’t a gloat yet. It won’t be real for a while. But it’s very much a looking forward to. It scares me to death. But I do the things that scare me. So yeah. I’m happy.