We’re not moving into our little house until the 30th of May, but that’s quite ok. I’ve lived there before. I can peruse my huge, back catalog of blog post to see many photographs of me smiling brightly inside it. Here is one I just shared with a friend recently. Look at me….ready to boil some peanuts. Those comforting beams of sunlight coating me with warmth.
So, I’m being awfully nostalgic at the moment, reminiscing about the special prominence this place has in my heart.
While strolling through memories, I recall the first day I walked into this little haven of mine. But, it wasn’t until today that I remembered meeting the landlord for the first time and hearing the most delightful story about how we were both the first tenants in that little spot.
A gay couple owned the house, had renovated their carport to be a source of income. She was the first tenant. She loved it so much that she lived there for years and eventually bought the whole property. It took her three years to close on the deal. Three years. But, she really wanted that house. Once the deal was sealed she took to renting the little studio….and I was the first tenant to live there.
I had forgotten that the landlord and I both shared that prestigious claim of being the first tenants of that wonderful little studio, one little spot that we would both come to love.
It feels like I am supposed to be there, to care for it. And somehow just being there is all that the house asked of me.
Because, in the crazy years that have passed since I left there, I have often felt that I would live there again. I just felt that.
Here I am, moving back there in 10 days….oh, the healing that happens when you are hugged by a home. Perhaps that is why the landlord said, “I see great things happening with you coming back here.”
(“I mistook you for Ruth Wilcox. You have her way of walking….’round the house….”) Double dog dare ya to tell what book that is from. But, if you know me, you can identify it easily.
I’ve always been hunting “Honeychurch.” Seems I had been there already, (but, not smart enough to know it) and left in search of bigger and greater things that should suit the stature of a “world famous knitter.”
Foolishly, I didn’t realize that “Honeychurch” was under my nose this entire time….and has been waiting for me ever since.
I can’t wait to go home.
If you appreciate my work and would like for this blog to continue, please donate to help keep it going. Every single dollar helps and I couldn’t do it without your support.