Mea Culpa

Disclaimer:

I wrote the following "Mea Culpa" post in the early summer of 2015.
The words were very hard to get down
- so hard, in fact, that I was never able to post them.

Now, as I sit in front of the Christmas tree in our new home,
my heart is light. My family is settled and well!
And so much has changed since last spring - thank God.

But I still feel this post deserves a place.

So, here it is - in all its morose glory! ;)
I'll catch you up on more current happenings as time permits - promise!


~~~

I've been M.I.A.

Mea culpa.

In the distant future,
when my stress level and blood pressure have taken a nose dive,
I might look back on this time with an odd sort of fondness.

It's not likely, but maybe.

In any case, these last four months have been a lot.

Nothing we can't handle, but still, a lot.

There was the entire kitchen demo and the remodel,
the listing of our home and subsequent burglary,
and the countless hours of packing.
Now, finally, the move.

And here it is, the last night in our home.

The beds are broken down, and the three Littles are camped out in sleeping bags.
Our possessions are boxed up and lining the walls.
There's an unsettled feeling to the air - an empty, flighty way of things.

It's been this way for weeks.

We've danced around goodbyes, but the time has come now,
and I'm terrible at goodbyes. 

I'd rather write a note or a blog post. 

Honestly, I don't revel in the sharing of tears.

I'm the one that lets them loose in the dark, after the house has fallen silent.
When I can feel them on my own terms and no one watches.

And the process of leaving this home has laid us low.
Consequently, there have been many tears.

This, the building that welcomed our children into the world;
this, the never-ending project that taught us patience and resilience;
this, the street that brought us dear friends and Americana memories;
this, the neighborhood that fed our urban dreams.

Leaving is a wound that will only heal with time.

We are onto new, uncertain things. Better things, I hope. 

But still, I smell the familiar sea air tonight; I hear the hum of the City.

I know our future has so much promise, but I ache for this loss. 

~~~

Love: Ballard. 

Love: 12th Avenue Northwest. 

Love: a tiny, pink home that shaped our adult lives. 

Be well, little house, we have loved you.