I realized last night that it's happened. I'm officially feeling at home in the
new house. I know this because last night, completely alone, I didn't give being alone in the new home a
second thought. Not when the dogs barked at an outside noise. Not when I had to
walk into the pitch dark bedroom without a light to guide me. Not when it poured rain and I wondered if the power
would cut off and leave me in darkness. Not once all night. I felt nothing but... comfortable.
This morning, with all the shades buttoned up tight and no nightlight, I navigated the coffee table in the complete blackness of the living room like a pro. Apparently my subconscious has learned the contours and edges of the house and its contents. I can move through without cutting a corner too closely or get jammed on a piece of furniture.
And I stopped waiting for the ghost of the house (doesn't every house have a spirit or two?) to appear to us or make himself known. Our house was occupied for decades by one family, so I wouldn't be surprised to meet a member of the family.
Especially in the garage. I keep waiting for the patriarch to show himself to us, in his man cave where it was likely he spent most of his time. But nothing. I no longer rush to get in and out with the laundry basket, afraid to look over my shoulder at the workbench against the wall. OK, that's a lie. But at least I've stopped talking to myself while I'm in there, hopeful that he won't interrupt me.
Our last house seemed a little perturbed about our arrival. The first few weeks we smelled cigarette smoke in the very center of the house, the kids' toys were constantly going off, and the closet doors, which were not on a track, moved. There was the banging on the washer when my hubby was alone (try hitting it - it's loud!), and constant shadows moving through the house. Most often we would hear footsteps, like the pads of bare feet hitting the carpet.
Besides getting hit with the closet door while putting in my contacts - yes, the happened! -- my favorite episode occurred when I was watching TV late night. Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone, the size of a small child, crouch by and sneak behind the couch. Naturally, thinking it was one of my kids, I yelled, "What are you doing out of bed?" and when I threw myself over the back of the couch to catch the little bugger in the act, I found nothing. No one. Just empty space. Yes, the hair on my arms and neck still stand at attention when I remember that one.
One day the activity died down. We found nothing on Google to indicate foul play at the house, but we did find diapers in the sewer system when it backed up into our driveway months later.
So as we make our new house a home, I expect some sign of previous life. The house is older than we are, and I can only imagine the tales it might tell if it would only talk. It's almost depressing to think that the family that lived and grew up in that house for the last forty plus years left no imprint on it.
We spent the last nine years living at the same address, sharing the mundane day-to-day stuff to the holy-shit-can-you-believe-it stuff within those walls. I like to think we left an imprint there.
I rode by the old house - again - yesterday. Doesn't matter to me that we didn't own it. We occupied it for approximatley 3,220 days, and it would make me sad to think there are no signs of us ever being there. Bleach, shampoo and Windex may have washed all evidence that we were ever there completely away, but I like to think there's an energy imprint.
I know, it sounds like psychic mumbo jumbo. But if it's hokey to believe we left impressions on a house, isn't it hokier to believe we occupied that space for all that time without leaving any residual affects?
This morning, with all the shades buttoned up tight and no nightlight, I navigated the coffee table in the complete blackness of the living room like a pro. Apparently my subconscious has learned the contours and edges of the house and its contents. I can move through without cutting a corner too closely or get jammed on a piece of furniture.
And I stopped waiting for the ghost of the house (doesn't every house have a spirit or two?) to appear to us or make himself known. Our house was occupied for decades by one family, so I wouldn't be surprised to meet a member of the family.
Especially in the garage. I keep waiting for the patriarch to show himself to us, in his man cave where it was likely he spent most of his time. But nothing. I no longer rush to get in and out with the laundry basket, afraid to look over my shoulder at the workbench against the wall. OK, that's a lie. But at least I've stopped talking to myself while I'm in there, hopeful that he won't interrupt me.
Our last house seemed a little perturbed about our arrival. The first few weeks we smelled cigarette smoke in the very center of the house, the kids' toys were constantly going off, and the closet doors, which were not on a track, moved. There was the banging on the washer when my hubby was alone (try hitting it - it's loud!), and constant shadows moving through the house. Most often we would hear footsteps, like the pads of bare feet hitting the carpet.
Besides getting hit with the closet door while putting in my contacts - yes, the happened! -- my favorite episode occurred when I was watching TV late night. Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone, the size of a small child, crouch by and sneak behind the couch. Naturally, thinking it was one of my kids, I yelled, "What are you doing out of bed?" and when I threw myself over the back of the couch to catch the little bugger in the act, I found nothing. No one. Just empty space. Yes, the hair on my arms and neck still stand at attention when I remember that one.
One day the activity died down. We found nothing on Google to indicate foul play at the house, but we did find diapers in the sewer system when it backed up into our driveway months later.
So as we make our new house a home, I expect some sign of previous life. The house is older than we are, and I can only imagine the tales it might tell if it would only talk. It's almost depressing to think that the family that lived and grew up in that house for the last forty plus years left no imprint on it.
We spent the last nine years living at the same address, sharing the mundane day-to-day stuff to the holy-shit-can-you-believe-it stuff within those walls. I like to think we left an imprint there.
I rode by the old house - again - yesterday. Doesn't matter to me that we didn't own it. We occupied it for approximatley 3,220 days, and it would make me sad to think there are no signs of us ever being there. Bleach, shampoo and Windex may have washed all evidence that we were ever there completely away, but I like to think there's an energy imprint.
I know, it sounds like psychic mumbo jumbo. But if it's hokey to believe we left impressions on a house, isn't it hokier to believe we occupied that space for all that time without leaving any residual affects?
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