We’re “getting the house ready to sell.” That is, I can only assume, what one might call a first-world problem. That we own a home, that we are free to sell it, definitely feels like a privilege. The clearing and the cleaning, the prepping and painting that are antecedent to putting it on the market feel like a privilege even in the midst of the anxiety they bring. Of the two feelings, anxiety seems like the more natural. The privilege probably speaks to something a little more neurotic in my nature.
I probably would have enjoyed the exercise of arranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. I’m aware that there is a name for this, and the disorder has held me in its clutches at times. Other times, however, I hold it in the crook of my arm in a way not unlike one holds an infant child. That infant came from me and will always in some ways be a part of me. Yet that infant is not me. In the same way, my quirks and qualities (redeeming or less so) are also part of me but not me all at the same time.
Sitting in a lovely inn about 40 miles from home, I know that my garage floor is clean, and this gives me great pleasure. In truth, I know that there is a section of my garage floor which still requires sweeping, and this makes me feel even better. I have a tangible use in my home. When that purpose is accomplished, I can find a shelf to dust or a floor to vacuum and there will definitely be weeds to pull.
Maybe I should not admit to the way in which domestic work speaks to my soul. Yet the simplicity that has come from purging all the stuff that has not seen use for lo these many years has lent clarity to the process of leaving. Where we are is good. Why we are leaving is good. These two realities do not need to be in conflict. Now to bury St. Joseph in the yard.