It feels like hiding to me. We’re putting our house on the market, the only house I’ve ever felt one hundred percent safe in, even though I’ve lived in over thirty places: houses, apartments, condos, you name it. They’ve all felt comfortable, but the house I live in now takes First Place among them. It’s my sanctuary.
Maybe that’s why I feel the need to occupy my time as we meet buyers and their agents, negotiate a contract, keep up the yard, etc. Maybe that why I’m turning more introspective these days. I’m in hiding.
I play piano because it’s one thing I don’t do easily, and I must focus all my attention on hitting the right notes. I cannot be thinking of something else. I read fiction because I can immerse myself in the story and pretend I’m in that world instead of my own. I write for the same reason.
Of course this penance is self-imposed. We don’t have to sell our home; rather we see it as downsizing to be able to do other things. Like travel. Or like using our monies differently. Intellectually I accept all this.
At the same time, I am conflicted. Which means that my mind is on board, but my heart is having difficulty with the decision.
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