Expecting today’s ridiculously long training day to be disrupted by heavy rainstorms, I stayed out last night later than I normally would. I hung out at a great neighborhood bar on the east side of Austin, playing Scrabble and Yahtzee with friends, old and new. I would have stayed out longer if I had known for sure that it would rain this morning, but I got myself home and to bed somewhat reasonably just in case the weather cleared for my 112-mile ride and hour run. It didn’t, so today I’ve been at home.
It’s well after noon, and I’m still in pajamas. I’ve emptied and reloaded the dishwasher, put fresh sheets on my bed, cleaned off the table that gets piled with mail and other stuff throughout the week, and almost completed my laundry. I’ve chatted by text with some friends. Mom came by for a while for coffee and conversation. Now I’m sitting down to write.
Today is the sort of day that reminds me just how much I love my space. I love my little house. I love that the “laundry room” is a closet in the living room and that I can hear the tumble of my clothes no matter where I am in the house. I love that I can burn a gingerbread candle in the kitchen and enjoy the scent throughout my space. I love that I can say, “Children? Where are you?” in a regular voice and Bread and Butter can hear me and come running even if they are clear on the other end of the house. My space is small, warm and inviting.
Before moving here, I lived in a 3000 square foot five-bedroom house all by myself. I bought it when I was dating someone I thought I might marry and then spent nearly a decade in it alone. I loved that two-story structure with its beautiful plantation-style white columns, but large and empty equalled lonely, so I left it. This house, my little country space, is much better suited to me.
I think about leaving it sometimes. I think about going to a new city or even moving back into town closer to where I work. But when I leave, whether it be for two months, two weeks or two days, I quickly am ready to return to this space. That doesn’t mean I expect to always live here, but I do envision it always being a home to me – a place I can return to as often as I need or want to rest, recharge and hear my thoughts more clearly.
Today, though the sun has now come out, I choose to stay in this space for the rest of the day. I choose to sit on this couch and just be with my family.
“Children? Where are you?”