Home

The seasons turn, and life is wonderful and terrible and busy and quiet, and here I am yet again.

What a year it has been.

The only thing that is certain is change, and the year has been full of changes. My daughter went to school here, then there, and then back here. (Whew.) I have completed my first full year of teaching, overwhelmed with gratitude that I get to do the thing that I love *and they pay me for it*. My relationship with my family is still estranged, possibly forever. Our beloved old dog Shep crossed the rainbow bridge. I gained weight and lost fitness.

Mine is not a perfect life.

But, strangley, suprisingly, wonderously, I feel like I'm finally at home.

This story starts with a sewage flood in my basement.

A few weeks ago I woke up, put the coffee on, and decided to do a load of laundry. I carried the laundry basket downstairs, and at the bottom of the steps to the basement (the fully finished basement, half of my home's living space) I saw a disturbing liquid on the bamboo floors.

Yuck.

Beyond my disgust, I felt panicked. Horrified, but also utterly unable to deal with such a mess. With nausea bubbling in my stomach and a pain in my chest that momentarily made me question whether I was having a heart attack, I knew what I had to do: it was time to sell my home of seventeen years. I just couldn't handle it any more. There is so much work to do in an old house (mine was built in 1923) and as a single person on a teacher's salary, how could I ever handle it? Plus, the house is four bedrooms, and I don't need that kind of space for just my daughter (who will leave for college in a few short years) and myself. I don't even need a yard anymore, now that dear old Shep has gone.

I called a realtor friend and told her about my decision, and asked for her help. She ran comps, made suggestions about changes I should make in order to sell. (Paint this, stage that - you get the gist.) I spent hours online looking at smaller places nearby that would cost significantly less.

But in the meantime, I needed to deal with my basement. Thank GOODNESS I had recently had Roto-Rooter out to clean the line - annual maintenance that in some years I had not been able to afford, but just the week before I'd done it - and they guarantee their work for 60 days, so they came out to clean it again and determine the source of the blockage. They assured me that since this wasn't a maintenance issue, insurance would pay for damages and repairs, and sure enough, insurance agreed, and sent out a team to demo the basement, removing drywall, trim, and all of the flooring, in addition to the bathroom vanity etc.

Knowing that I'd need to sell the house, I realized that I should make some upgrades to the basement when the work was being done, so, heart pounding, I looked into getting a loan (HELOC) from the bank, figuring that I could do the upgrades for selling the house, then get the money back when I did so.

But getting a HELOC made my chest hurt even more. My whole life my father told me that I was bad with money, and I have heard his voice in my head for 49 years. I still operate as if at any moment I could lose everything, and I carry the belief that I am a hot mess financially.

I went to the bank mostly expecting to be turned down.

Instead, we ran credit checks - excellent. I asked for a sum that I thought was extraordinary and terrifying. They instantly suggested that I apply for double that amount. They held my hand, they assured me that all was well, and we even managed to reduce a credit card rate by 3%.

So now here I am, 49 years old, and it is occurring to me that I am not actually bad with money, that I am a good financial risk. I have a stable job with a continuing contract, doing work that I love with colleagues I adore, and in Washington State teachers got a raise this year.

The damages to the basement were extensive (currently I have concrete floors and studs for walls, and no second bathroom), and with insurance repairs and a bit of extra money it will look better than it has ever looked before when it's done in a couple (few?!) months. The repayment plan is manageable. I realized that not only could I afford to keep my house, but I really, really wanted to do so.

This house has seen so much of my life, including the worst years of my life, but also some of the best. This house has watched me grow and change. This house is the only home that my daughter has ever known. But more than that, this house is the center of my community. I know all my neighbors; I've eaten their food and shared mine. I've watched children grow up here; I've watched trees double in size. I have had a sea of children come through my front door, flopping on sofas, playing games, snacking. I have no idea how many sleepovers have occurred within these walls, or how many bottles of wine have been consumed around my table, but I do know that spontaneous gatherings occur with regularity.

My house has never been the nicest, or most fashionable, or largest, among my friends - I hang out with a successful crowd. But still, my house is a place that people want to be. There's always cheese and crackers for snacking, and there's that wonderful shady spot under the tree for relaxing in the back yard on sunny days, and the family room is just perfect for teenagers to munch on disgusting junk food and make a lot of noise.

I never thought it would be true, but having a sewage flood has turned out to be a good thing. It has reminded me how much I love my home, and it has taught me that actually, I am a grown up, I can handle my messes, and I can still make lemonade from lemons.

***

Two years ago, when my father informed me that he was ashamed to be my father (because of a political post I'd put on Facebook; needless to say, he is as much a fan of Trump's as I am horrified by Trump), I felt relieved that my father had put out in the open what I had suspected my whole life; I'd always known that he did not respect me or value my opinions. But at the same time, I felt adrift in the world: with his words, my father had basically disowned me and made it impossible for me to have a relationship with him, and I felt incredibly alone, adrift. I kept thinking that I didn't feel grounded, that I had no home to return to, that without a family I was alone and untethered. I was sure that I would be unable to withstand life's storms, without a husband or parents to support me, and that this was where I would finally show the world my shame that I was incapable.

The opposite has proved true.

I am flawed, imperfect, and some days I really am a hot mess. It's true; I don't have it all figured out, and the amount that I do not know is quite astounding. However, it's also true that I'm no more a hot mess than anyone else, and sometimes, I even have my act together.

My sewage flood reminded me of the possibilities of my home, and the possibilities for myself. Being awash in shit - there is no polite way to say it - gave me, quite literally, a chance for a clean start. Professional teams came in to sanitize everything, and now we're starting fresh, and it's going to be better than before.

This holiday season, my basement isn't a cozy oasis for watching silly Christmas movies, but it's okay. Right now, despite missing walls, a lack of doors, and concrete floors, we put the furniture back, and we can hang out there anyway. I don't need it to be perfect; I know it's a work in progress, like I am.

The home I'm seeking is here. The place I've longed to go to is here. My home, like me, is quirky and perhaps even unfashionable, but that's not all we are. We're welcoming, warm, playful, and real. There's space in my home, and my heart, for others. There are quiet spots for morning coffee alone in thought. There are plenty of chairs around the table for pots of chili to share, or board games.

I finally found home, seventeen years after I moved in. It took me a while to figure it out, but in these four walls, I'm figuring out who I am, and where I belong. I belong here. This place is beautiful, strong, a haven and a safe harbor. These walls have seen pain, but they've seen even more love and healing. The furniture might have been thrifted, and there are scratches, but the pieces are solid and functional and people tell me when they walk in my front door "ohhh it feels GOOD here."

It feels good in my home, and it feels good in my life. 49 years old, and I'm starting to learn what I'm really made of, and I'm starting to imagine my own potential.

It's never too late to go home - I just had to realize that home was of my own making.