I am standing on a cliff.
Everything is new.
Or will be very soon.
Within four weeks these things will happen:
1. We will sell our beloved first home in North Carolina.
2. We will buy a new home in Kansas City.
3. We will move in to said new home in Kansas City.
4. I will finish my masters dissertation for St Andrews.
5. I will have a baby.
As I said before, I am standing on a cliff. Looking down. I am afraid of heights.
What will this new life be? What is being a mother? I feel this baby move and I wonder who she is. I wonder what we will say to each-other in all the years that are coming. I pray that I will make a home for her—a place of light, beauty, love, peace.
For me, the New House has become a symbol of hope for my new life (and the New Life who will be born soon). It is difficult to imagine the future, or plan for the complexities of this new life. It is difficult to imagine a person you have never met—or a world you have yet to create. I find that my fear, my expectation, my joy are all tied up in the house. I spend hours thinking about the house. And silly things about the house: paint colors, curtains, pedestal tables. Or the garden: what will I grow? Is my soil alkaline or acidic? What color climbing roses? Will hydrangeas work in the back bed (which doesn’t exist yet)? Or the way light comes into the house from the south, the cool northern side where the front porch is. The bats who live behind the shutters. Somehow all these things stand in for the baby who will be in this place, whose first memories will be of this place.