I find it interesting that the actual transaction for selling a house is called closing. When the front door to my parents’ house—the one that anchored our family over four decades—closed to us, it started me thinking about other doors I’ve known. In recent years, we’ve gone from a midwest victorian door to a northwest contemporary door to an English castle door to our Scottish Hobbit door. Recently, I closed another door, when we left the Hobbit House to move to a needy cottage on a Scottish island.
The truth is that most of those changes have led to wonderful new friends, life-changing experiences, and incredible memories. Generally, I’m a glass-half-full girl, so I’m grateful for all the places those doors have taken me. But I’ve learned a few things along the way.
Close the door.
Leave the pieces that weigh too much. Really. I’m getting older and my back isn’t all it used to be, so moving with just the things I’d grab if the house was about to burn down (the dog, the laptop, Grandmother’s silver soup ladle, and the hard drive with the stored photos I keep swearing I’ll upload to the cloud) is freedom.
Open the door.
Take the pieces that don’t weigh a thing. Really. I’m getting older and my head isn’t all it used to be, so taking only the memories (good friends, good times, good years) is riches.
It’s okay to be human. And that means I cry when I miss friends, swear when I get lost (or don’t know which dry cleaner to use, or I have to find a new place to do my hair, or it’s Thursday), and vow catastrophic vengeance the like of which the new city has never encountered if I have to go one more day without getting the internet installed.
And finally, if one more door closes on a piece of my past I used to call home…
For the love of all that’s holy, don’t let me write another one of these maudlin, cliche-choked schmaltzy blog posts.