home holding pattern

I’ve been reading the first book of Jim Butcher’s “Dresden Files” series — Storm Front — and just this morning, I’ve come across the following passage:

Here had lived someone else who knew that the only thing waiting at home was a sense of loneliness. Sometimes it is comforting. Most often, it isn’t.

This got me to thinking again about this “intentional vacuum” I’m creating in my home, clearing out that which no longer serves me as a means of inviting in more of the life I choose to create for myself.

I’ve been living very much a “bachelor” lifestyle, for lack of a better term — granted, my home and schedule are significantly more organized and livable than those of many (but not all) bachelors I’ve seen. It wasn’t until reading this passage in Butcher’s novel about a wizard private investigator that I realized that my house doesn’t feel very much like a home — at least, it doesn’t feel like the home I want to live in.

In recent months, I’ve found myself reminiscing about the house I left behind in Virginia. I loved that house. I owned and lived in it for seven years, and I’d absolutely made it my own. I replaced major appliances — including switching the house over form oil to gas for heating — tore down walls, stripped wallpaper off of every wall and ceiling in the place, rebuilt the screened porch, planted a garden…. That place was a real home, and I loved it.

I’ve been in this condo now for almost four years. I’ve made some changes — ripped up the downstairs carpet, painted the kitchen, installed central air, planted some herbs, and the like — but for the most part, I still haven’t made this place my own. I’ve not made the investment of my time, energy, and vision into creating a home for myself here.

I suppose I kept thinking of this place as being temporary, that I’d stay here until I found something better, until I found my mate, until I moved on. All of that is absolutely still the case — after all, today is merely the space and time connecting yesterday to tomorrow — but it has given rise to rather tenuous feelings and circumstances in my life as a whole. Not to mention that my house doesn’t feel like my home.

To build the life I want for myself tomorrow, I have to commit today. If I’m living a life of waiting, then the forecast for tomorrow will similarly be more waiting. To create the home life I envision for myself moving forward, I’m going to have to get to work right here, where I am now. That means finally picking a couple of paint colors and making some choices about what rugs, artwork, and pieces of furniture to keep and what to give away, instead of waiting around to “see what happens” before making any decisions.

I’m not sure how or why I got myself locked into such a holding pattern, but one thing’s for sure: My house is not a waiting room. I choose to make it my home.