Roots

Owning my own home, instead of renting apartments, has never been something I've dreamed of, wanted, or even looked forward to doing. It just seems so permanent in a world that feels so temporary.

Henry and I talked at great lengths about buying a boat to live on, we even stepped on the decks of several that, at the time, we thought would fit the bill. As I sit here, in 1/4 of a house that was built in the 1880's, and look around the space, I know this too is temporary. I've lived in this house since March of 2017. First in a tiny upstairs apartment, then in September 2017, I moved to a much larger apartment on the first floor.

The past few months I have spent some time looking up old houses and learning about the history that accompanies every floorboard, brick, and shingle that still stands today. During this interesting education, I have found myself entertaining the idea of being a homeowner. It's nice to imagine myself walking through a house that I own. Until that little voice inside me screams, 'everything is temporary!'

At one point in my life, which I was oblivious to at the time, I actually put down roots and was flourishing beautifully. Now? I live in Hell without the LOML, who was also my very best friend.

My roots have died and my growth stunted. As hard as I tried to build something from within myself, I finally surrendered.

I was simply banging my head against a closed door.