between the ages of 18 and 31 i moved 12 times. it was exhilarating for me. i loved the possibility of each spot, viewing each apartment/house through my highly romanticized filter. i had a single houseplant that only survived two moves in all of the time i lived in any of those locations. one had a kitchen inhabited by the largest silverfish ever. in another i got to indulge views of the tops of trees, watching swirls of birds flock in the dawn and dusk. i worshipped bacchus in more than one and practiced meditation in another that led me to levels of consciousness patterned by streams of colored matter.
at the age of 34 i was barely expecting sweet S and our lives together with all of our girls were beginning to dovetail as happens when the youngest turns one. even so, the idea tinder was sparked and we were off to find ourselves our own house. we stalked the internet, the western PA countryside, every penny we had (including $300+ in the change barrel my husband once kept) and many wishes. and then, our home found us.
it was unwanted and unexplored. the dated snapshots showed a bleak, snowy homestead unusual for the spring bliss of may. driving past became pulling up the drive became parents-only sprints around the property became languishing moments of play and daydreaming. we felt quieted and power-surged every time we would sneak onto the property to look in the windows hoping for purchasing insights. there were signs but nothing that you would find on a home buyers checklist. it was the sound of their feet pulsing along the large porch, the scent on the wind of chilly evenings and balmy afternoons, the feeling of shelter provided by the giant pine buffering the house. but more than anything it was how miss C daydreamed Little House fantasies aloud or how lovely L let her baby toes snuggle in the grass. they already knew through their magical intuition that this was their place — their home.