Home is where the heart is. So I thought, until I sat and remembered my ‘stuff’ left at my old house after my move to my new life with my new husband.
I think I crushed my husband a bit when I childishly complained yesterday that I missed half of my life because it’s in boxes back North. He gently reminded me that I was a Minimalist, or at least supposed to be one, and that he has also left behind parts of his life in boxes across the country as he has moved over the years.
I cling to that house because, again, childishly- it’s “Mine”. I bought the house. I bought all the furniture. I bought all the decorations. I inherited various decorations and antiques. Mine. Mine. Mine.
But it also represents a not so great time in my life- it was Mine, and my ex’s first purchased home. Those memories there are best left behind in those boxes.
I am keeping the house, partially for my son, and partially for a cozy place in the country to stay at when I visit my parents. Truth be told, I keep it mostly for “mine“- as a reminder of what I accomplished- As if my memory wouldn’t be enough to remind me of all I have done in this life. I am scared to let it go, as if selling it erases the things I had done. I keep the house like a trophy in a case- dust it off occasionally to pat myself on the back for what I have done.
I am reminded that we can’t take any of this with us in the end. And what investment is an empty 88 year old home to a 5 year old? There are, I am sure, better investments made than property that needs to be kept up with. I am tempted to rent it out- but then I struggle with the idea of someone other than myself being there. Again, it’s “mine”.
Around and around in my mind I make my case for and against selling it. At some point a decision will need to be made- finally settling that chapter of my life- and moving fully forward with the rest of my story.