So, we have lived in our new house for almost four years now and it has been an adjustment. The biggest one has been adjusting my own romantic expectations. One of my favorite books is Anne's House of Dreams, in which Anne lives in charming house near the sea.
While I knew it was unlikely that I would have a gorgeous seaside house, I've always kind of wished for something beautiful--either a grey stone cottage with centuries of character or a glass modern home that lit like a lantern in the night. A house that you could imagine lived with stories and full of "scopes for imagination."
Of course, that's not exactly what we ended up with. Don't get me wrong, I like our house. It was a good choice--solidly built, good location--all the things we needed to check off on our real estate list. But during that first year, I felt a small sense of disappointment. It was a nice house, but not my house of dreams.
But, as more time has passed, the disappointment has faded and transformed. Perhaps it is kind of suburb-ian, perhaps it does lacks that storybook charm or any kind of grandness that would impress visitors...but it is our house! A house that we are paying for with income that I make from books! That is truly a dream.
And, as we add more of our own quirky touches (that would never fit with a castle by the sea) and make our own memories here, I'm starting to realize that while this might not be my house of dreams, it is something even better--a home.
