An interesting thing happened last week. As I casually mentioned, we met with a realtor last Friday to discuss the possibility of putting our house on the market. It has long been our dream to move away from here and settle closer to the ocean and closer to our family.
I mentally moved out a year or two ago.
When we moved here the house was a solid, 70's ranch. With all the harvest gold and avocado that conjures up that era. We immediately started work on renovating the house to our liking. We took out the sparkly popcorn ceilings. We redid both bathrooms. I personally removed acres of wallpaper. We redid the floors – twice. We added architectural details like crown molding and fancy fireplace mantels. Gutted the kitchen of its dark brown cupboards and dark brown appliances.
We replaced all the interior doors and the light fixtures. We painted. We gardened. We made it ours. And, if I do say so myself, we made it lovely.
Because I mentally moved on to our little house by the ocean I fell out of love with it.
Last Friday we met with a nice realtor who came armed with statistics and charts and comps and a lot of brutal honesty. She agreed we had done some beautiful things here and it was market-ready. But the market, as we all know, is not ready for us. House prices are about the same as they were when moved here nine years ago. And after all the money we have poured into the place and the prices of the homes in the area we are interested in moving to, it just isn't financially reasonable to sell right now.
And probably won't be for three, five, maybe even ten years.
As the realtor was talking, and the news was way worse than we had expected, we slowly had the dawning realization that our dreams of moving any time soon were not going to happen.
Then the interesting thing happened. Instead of being crushed I felt myself having a renewed appreciation for our poor, cast aside home. I felt myself moving back in.
There are certain things I was envisioning for our imaginary house by the ocean. A combination office/studio for myself. A workshop for Rick. A proper garden. Chickens.
No reason we can't keep dreaming of those things. I've been happily tromping around outside, picturing exactly where my picket fenced vegetable garden will go. How big the chicken coop should be. When I should plant a Cecile Brunner on my trellis (something I've been meaning to do for nine years now).
Sweet, old patient house. It probably knew I would come back to it.
