We've accepted an offer on the house. Still contingent on inspection, and a month till closing; and I'm assured by everyone knowledgeable that plenty can go wrong in the interim. But I woke today with a load of anxiety off my chest. I rose light and gleaming and wise as a serpent.
We have barely had a summer here. What we have now is like lovely spring weather, but already the days are lengthening, and the word “autumnal” was the first one that occurred to me, when I tried to describe the quality of my happiness. But autumn has always been my favorite season, and summer my least favorite: I'm quite happy to elide this summer and go straight on into September.
We have been looking seriously at houses, all this while, so we have a good idea of the market, of what we want and what we can afford.
My main wish is simply to be done with it. I don't believe which house we live in is likely to have much to do with our happiness, in the end. I want to get back to my untroubled mornings, to focusing on writing and friends and massage: I dislike above all things “having too much to do.” It's debilitating frame of mind, struggling against time. Time always wins, after all.
Still, I have injured myself and my relations with Martha by never fully inhabiting our house, and I intend to do the next one differently, to give more of myself to it: to sink into being a householder without irony or restraint, to care about the paint on the windowsill and the hot water heater. There is something grounding and humbling about caring for a place, which is still there no matter which way the light slants. I don't think I need to worry about getting too caught in the quotidian. Not my weakness.