Right this second, I am sitting on my couch in my living room. My house is small—875 square feet—but comfortable. Except for a 7-year, post-marriage-end stint at an apartment downtown (which I still miss), I’ve lived here since 2001.
I could point to places on the walls and spots on the floor and tell you the stories of raising three children here…of the end of my marriage, panic attacks, and even how I rounded the corner from the kitchen to watch the north tower fall on 9/11. Endless moments of joy, despair, stress, and so much love live in the structure all around me. Some days, it is as though my body thinks that I am back there, still raising my children—they’re 23, 20, and 17 now—or expecting frequent guests. When I’m bored or shiftless, I find myself standing in the kitchen as though it’s time to make dinner for many…even though I moved back nine years ago and have lived alone for most of them.
My mother had a knack for decorating and worked as a decorator when we lived in Texas, when I was in high school. As a preacher’s wife, she had always made every parsonage we moved to more beautiful. I inherited her artistic bent but am more practical in how I approach living spaces. I could live in a mansion or van with similar ease. But I live here, and obeying my mother’s rules of home living isn’t working for me any more. She needed a space that was comfortable and welcoming to others, because parishioners did come by unexpectedly and at all hours.
I have different goals and priorities. I’m crafting and fundraising for The Boot by Boot, in which I’m going to walk the length of Italy. I’m writing books two and three. I create videos and social content. Though I would love to…
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