I'm grieving leaving this house as if I'd lived in it my entire life. I can't get a grip on this and I don't know why. Hell, in 1990 my parents left a house they'd lived in for 22 years, in an area they'd lived in for 46 years. They were excited to leave their three-bedroom suburban tract house in California to move into a two-bedroom apartment in a crowded Denver suburb, at the ages of 65 and 72, and they did it with all the verve and expectations of a newlywed couple in their twenties. They made new friends, found new restaurants, and were really happy that they'd made the change. Repeat: They were 65 and 72!What the hell is wrong with me!?...
All I'm faced with is moving to another house in the same town, maybe stepping down a notch, but not having to say good-bye to friends and family. I'm an effin' wuss and I seriously have to get a grip here. We've been in this house for a piddling five years. Yeah, there are memories, but big whoop! Not as many as my parents' house had.
When did I get so afraid of change, old hippie "All Things Must Pass" me? True, I've moved 38 times in 57 years, but still, when did I lose my love for new experiences?
In my defense, I must say that I'm a Libra and my home isn't just a box that I sleep in. It's my ongoing work of art, the canvas of my personal expression. It's the physical manifestation of who I am and I put my very soul into every facet of my home—the decor, art, furniture placement, even my chotchkies and collectibles. That's why I'm picky about shoes left in the living room and towels half-thrown on the racks. Those things destroy the esthetics that are so intrinsic to my happiness. But those are things that have always gone with me, regardless of where I've lived. It's just that this house is the nicest that I've ever had the pleasure to inhabit, and leaving it is very hard for me.
I think I need to keep my focus on my parents and garner inspiration from their courage. I don't like looking in the mirror and seeing a wuss.
