scribblechic

My husband and I have always spoken of change with an expectation that each occasion presented an opportunity to realize  the promise of an abstract sense of possibility. We dream out loud on subjects ranging from work and children, to hobbies and home. Some subjects we address with a romantic sense of whimsy; our dreams alluring for their stark contrast to reality. There are dreams that if realized I might miss their uncertain possibility and other dreams more beautiful once weighted in reality.

Our first home remodeling project came to fruition in the glow of newlywed ignorance. The absence of expectations created a sense of adventure that helped the days pass with tolerance for temporary inconveniences. Years later in our second home dust and disaster were equally acceptable as we converted my husband’s childhood home into something of our own. More recently I began to dread the reality of our remaining remodeling projects with the same measure of anxiety as enthusiasm for the anticipated expectation of change.

Fine layers of dust and the disharmony that accompanies the chaotic atmosphere of construction left me with all the patience of a two-year old. I wanted to sit on our narrow stairway, blocking the path and halting the progress of a much needed renovation. Even the wallpaper is ready to retire, curling self-consciously from its seam. It is time for my vision to expand and encompass a moment my husband and I have dreamed of; the end of a once long list of house projects.

As we near this moment I pause to give thanks for the generous spirit that lovingly makes our house, our home. Long hours between work and play were devoted to each room of our home. My husband tirelessly transforming his childhood home into our children’s home.

I have happy memories of our kitchen floor, bare concrete filled with chalk outlines of our children’s forms; beneath my office carpet there are painted footprints in the pattern of our daughter’s toddler steps from her eager endeavors to paint; the memory of my son proudly demolishing an old brick fireplace with the awkward weight of a sledgehammer balanced by the twinkle in his eyes;  tiny scratches in our hardwood floor stir memories of our puppy. The strength of each room’s walls keep us safe and the love inside them guards our dreams. Without the company of my family and the possibility of dreams, our home is just a house.

Tagged: Dreams, Family, Home, Musings