Friday, August 15, 2014

The Voices Are Speaking Again, Whispering To Me

There Is A Voice Inside Of You
That Whispers All Day Long,
"I Feel That This Is Right For Me,
I Know That This Is Wrong."
No Teacher, Preacher, Parent, Friend
Or Wise Man Can Decide
What's Right For You- Just Listen To
The Voice That Speaks Inside.

Shel Silverstein
The voices are speaking to me again. Whispering. The cottage in my mind, that siren that won't let go, has beckoned me, teased me, just as I thought I'd settled down. I am up on looking at houses late at night, wondering if it is time for a change.
If it were only so simple to decide "I feel that this is right for me, I know that this is wrong".
Late at night it feels so right, yet in the morning sun, as my day begins, and the dogs and I walk into my back yard, the voice is hushed as I breathe in the sweet morning air and quietly think to myself, stay, perhaps anything else would be wrong.
I know what triggered this latest round of voices. The loudest voice was my own crying out, Nooooo! The French drain that went in last year, and has kept water from seeping into my basement, failed a week ago. All the Georgia rain, pounding hard on my roof, on the ground, relentless in the mid afternoons, brought two things, one oh so right, the other, oh so wrong.
My roses burst forth in a beautiful display of pink. A magical moment when the new buds opened up and my world was rosy.

My basement started to leak again. I watched as the work was done a year ago and my handyman did a splendid job. I chose him over a large company that would have done the same repair, the only difference, jackhammering up my cement floor to put in a drain and a fan, for ten thousand dollars. My handyman's work mirrored the work in their brochure. I did not want a drain. I wanted the water to stop. 

I may be cursed with this problem forever, water trickling into my basement. I went to Home Depot and purchased a small shop vac. It will do the job a drain would, and for much less. It was thirty dollars. My buck stops here.

That small puddle on my grey cement floor started a conversation in my mind again. Perhaps it is time to go. 

The voices took me to Florida this time. To be close to my family, to be in a small town close to the water, to redefine who I am before more time passes.

My birthday is just around the corner. This year for all its promise, gave me moments of self-doubt. Surgery in February kept me too quiet for too long.  I will be sixty-six in a blink of an eye. I worry I am not where I am supposed to be. I wonder if I'm too old to make a huge move. I question if I really want to.

The never-ending question that haunts me the most, do I need to leave this house I lived for thirty plus years, twenty-five of them with my husband, to take the final step to find myself. I am happy here, safe, in a lovely town with great friends, but I can't leave those questions alone.

Houses. My sirens, my ghosts, my passion. I started this blog to come to terms with my dream of an old house. I thought I'd settled in to a life here. Now I wonder . . .

My first night up on again had me downsizing to a smaller house with all the square footage on one floor, with less age problems. As true to my nature and the house demons that haunt me, the cottage in my mind grew to enormous proportions, to a huge gingerbread Victorian house with a second story.

A new business, a small art gallery, a place for writers to meet, rooms for family and friends to come visit, the houses below could accommodate all.  The repairs could be worse than what I dread  here now! But a dream is a lovely place to start to figure things out.  Maybe for me it is the questions, not the answers, that are important. I believe that in questioning our lives we find what is important to live life to the fullest, to answer what is right  for me and what is wrong.


The one constant in any cottage dream - a yard large enough for six dogs to play and be safe. I do have my priorities straight there!