Photo borrowed from myhomeideas.com
So here we are living, dreaming and sharing our experiences with one another. We all have our ups and downs in this quest for a perfect life. Sometimes we know what we want, sometimes we can fill in that blank- if… but sometimes it’s not so clear, you could say, it’s kind of a gray area.
We could say things like- my life would be perfect if…
I had enough money to live it the way I wanted to,
if I had an awesome body, healthy and beautiful, that will never grow old,
if I had a great job, that I loved,
If I had the time to do the things I wanted to do and had the time to spend it with the people I wanted to be with instead of those who just happen to be in the same place at the same time.
Yesterday while driving home from work I listened to an interview with Meaghan Daun the author of “My life would be perfect if I lived in that house”. It made me think about how I might complete the sentence- my life would be perfect if… but I really couldn’t come up with a viable option or the perfect line and then I thought… what is perfect and is that really what I want? hmmm…
The following is an excerpt of this book… I like it!
Yesterday, a piece of my house came off in my hands. I don’t mean that metaphorically. I banged the garbage can against an outside wall, and a piece of stucco about the size of a sheet of paper came ever so slightly loose. When I touched it, it fell gently into my palm. It was as if the house were giving me a lock of its hair, or perhaps coughing up phlegm. I was concerned, but it also happened that I was really busy that day. I just couldn’t get into it with the stucco, not right then anyway. Also, I was coming up on my five-year anniversary of owning the house, and if there’s anything I’ve learned in five years, it’s this: if a piece of your house falls off and you don’t know what to do with it, throwing it in the trash and forgetting about it is a perfectly viable option. And it so happened that the trash can was right there. Once upon a time I would have made a beeline to the yellow pages to look up “stucco replacement,” but I’ve come a long way since then.
So has the house. I bought it in 2004, and as I write this, it’s supposedly worth $100,000 less than what I paid for it. By the time you read this, it will probably be worth even less than that. I try not to care because if I cared too much, or even thought about it too much, I’d go insane. I’ve spent enough time here being insane, believe me. I was insane when I bought the place, and I went even more insane afterward. Then again, the whole world was high a few years ago. The whole world, or at least the whole country, was buying real estate and melting it down to liquid form and then injecting it into veins. For my part, it’s tempting to say I succumbed to peer pressure, but it was really much more complicated than that. There is no object of desire quite like a house. Few things in this world are capable of eliciting such urgent, even painful, yearning. Few sentiments are at once as honest and as absurd as the one that moves us to declare: “Life would be perfect if I lived in that house.”
I’m writing this book in homage to that sentiment, which is to say I’m telling the story of a very imperfect life lived among very imperfect houses.
I, too, have had fantasies about the perfect house- a quaint little cottage surrounded by a garden of roses and other aromatic bloomers, the creamy white kitchen is old but still very functional, the wood floors creak with every step I take, but the windows open up to a panoramic view of the sea. The smell of sea-spray and romantic flowers fills my breath as the breeze gently graces my cheek like the touch of a feather and this house, this view, this experience makes my life seem,,, well… perfect!
My eyes are closed and my head is laying back in my chair, I can feel it- I’m there and it’s perfect…