Simple, concrete, southern gothic, and strange….with room to play croquet. That should be the listing for this house.
It is so wild and wonderful to me, that seven years after leaving this house, that I would return. Only because some of them most amazing moments of my new found life as “Mad Man Knitting” began there.
Under the chiseled, box cut cherry shrubs that clung to the fence, I found a new life for myself. Beneath the shade of darling old oaks with pruned, knotty, faces, I began to discover my voice for the first time in my life.
Set to the side of a house, my little studio did me just fine. In that little space I began to find a “clarity” through my written word, began to really explore my own story with blog post after blog post about nothing more than my own life; my simple, but strange, southern Gothic way of twisting sorrowful moments into something eccentrically hopeful. And you found me….
This was my first place, post homeless. I had fought my way out of the most difficult time in my life. I had spent years knitting my butt off, just wanting a place to live, a place to sleep quietly, without my boots on, without a pillow case at the ready to toss my cat in should we have to dash quickly. (Mario is still here, perched on the top of my chair).
This little comfy was a place to rest. A place where I could finally sigh, and come alive. That little place meant so much to me.
So, it seems as if all the stars are aligned, and the Universe has said, “You left there far too soon….”
And for years I have often speckled my day with peeks at zillow. In the seven years since I left that little house, you have seen me climb, you have seen me stumble. You’ve seen me be braggadocios; you’ve seen me be humble. Always trying my best, but sometimes showing up at my worst.
Throughout these many years there would be many an occasion where I would look up on google maps the address of my little, old abode, go to street view, virtually stand at the curb to see if I could capture whatever it was that beautiful, broken shelter bespoke to me that actually made everything work; before my agoraphobia kicked in, before my recklessness began to overpower my own talents.
And just when I needed that little house, it called to me.
A little peg on a craigslist map…..
This little house may seem to some as a little battered, a touch bitter. But, this little house invites with a fence that needs mending. It wants to be friended, wants to be kept alive by only the stories it can tell of those that have once loved it. It isn’t the prettiest, but it was hoping you wouldn’t mind.
I understand that little house. I am that little house.
And when I contacted the owner she said, “I’d love to rent to you again.”
I give my utmost thanks to all of you that read and appreciate my work. Because of you, we are moving back to the little house at the end of the month.
And I have to confess….this is the first time in my life where I felt I was going backwards in order to move forwards…as it should be.
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