To sum it up, the book is about "what happens when, for whatever reason, your identity becomes almost totally wrapped up not in who you are or how you live but in where you live." In her search for the perfect address and a home complete with wainscoting and perfectly lined bookshelves and tasteful art and well-tended houseplants, she says, "I thought I was only as good as my color scheme, my drawer pulls, my floors" and that "only a house could make you whole."
While I can't say that I've ever equated a house with wholeness, I definitely recognized some of myself in this sentiment. I can't remember a time when I didn't feel that the space that I lived in needed to be an accurate reflection of myself (or who I perceived myself to be). In high school, I was frustrated beyond measure that I wasn't allowed to paint the walls in my bedroom and was limited to hanging only a few pictures. In college, I covered nearly every square inch of my dorm room space with posters and pictures and inspirational quotes in an effort to express myself. In apartment after apartment, I've felt frustrated with my inability (or unwillingness) to paint or change counter tops or install new light fixtures in order to make a place my own. I've been dreaming of the day when I could buy the "perfect" house and make it just like I want it.
Of course, there's definitely something to be said for wanting where you live to be a reflection of who you are. How we design and use our spaces allows us endless opportunities to express ourselves and our creativity, and we can't help but want to live in a neighborhood that feels like "us." But this book reminded me that there is a fine line between allowing your house to reflect who you are and allowing your house to define who you are. There have definitely been moments in my search for places to live over the years where I've perhaps tiptoed over that line, and nothing seems to have brought this out more than my search for a place to buy.
I have often daydreamed of being settled into an airy, bright, urban-but-not-too-modern home with gleaming hardwood floors, lots of windows, perfect paint colors and expertly placed IKEA light fixtures and accessories. Naturally, it will be an older home with lots of charming features like arched doorways and crown molding and original woodwork. Naturally, there will also be a roaring fireplace, a cozy (but not too manicured) garden, endless shelves of books (see how smart and cultured I am?) and a reading nook. Organic herbs will grow in pots on the kitchen windowsill. I will host fabulous backyard dinner parties that last well into the night under strings of outdoor lights with colorful paper globes. Dan and I will have the luxury of walking everywhere. Though I have two cats, amazingly no one will ever see a litter box in my house.
You can see that I have a bit of a problem. This is, of course, all fantasizing, and in most moments I recognize that it is not grounded in reality. But I do have moments where I realize that I've gotten a bit too wrapped up in the idea that life would in fact be perfect (or at least be better) if I just found the right house.
To start, of course, there is no perfect house. If there is a perfect place, I probably cannot afford it. And even if there were such a perfect (and perfectly affordable) place, and even if I felt that it perfectly reflected me, who I am and what I want is invariably going to change. And then there is, of course, the fact that a house is not a home. It is a thing. It is made of stuff. The things that truly make a home a home have nothing to do with original hardwood floors or crown molding or a perfectly sized yard.
Anyone who has bought a house will probably tell you that you start out with your "dream" house in mind and adjust your expectations as the reality of what is available and what you can afford starts to really sink in. Dan and I could both tell you that we are no exception to this rule. In some ways, I think perhaps this has been harder for me than it probably is for most people. I'm continually working to remind myself of the following:
a) Just because I am still a renter does not mean I have somehow failed at being a grown-upThe good news? Dan and I put in an offer on a house yesterday. A perfectly cute Cape Cod on a ridiculously cute street. A place with hardwood floors and a new kitchen with granite counter tops and arched doorways and charming alcoves. The sellers responded with a counteroffer today--one that indicates that they are unwilling to budge in their efforts to sell the house for more than what it's worth. And so, without a moment's hesitation or regret, we walked away. Nearly perfect as that house might have been, we knew that it is not our house. Our less than perfect house is still out there waiting for us somewhere. And when we find it, we will embrace it, faults and all.
b) My house is a place to live, not a place to impress
c) My friends and family will be happy to come see me even if we are in a slightly cramped living room or the carpet is ugly or I don't have a fabulous back deck
d) I don't have to wait to be a homeowner before I embark on doing all the things you aren't "supposed" to do until after you are "settled" (e.g., I should ignore the people who say ridiculous things like, "I guess you guys probably aren't planning on having kids soon since you haven't bought a house yet.")
e) Once I do find a house and make it my own, I will not suddenly feel perfectly at home in the world, settled into my perfect life in the perfect place and ready for the rest of my life to begin
