I’ve gotten pretty good at decluttering. Soon after my divorce in mid-2012 I moved into a one room studio apartment that required me to adopt a minimalist mentality. Two years later I remarried and moved into my husband’s mom’s house which required even more material leanness on my part. It’s not glamorous even if we do live in LA. Living in another woman’s home is part of the permanent pause I refer to here. As most things in life are, it’s a tradeoff. Living with my mother-in-law allows my husband to go back to college. Which, now that I think about it, is pretty rad.
I’d even like to think that I’m beginning to see the silver lining. Unencumbered by weighty material things my family and I currently enjoy a certain lightness of being. Right now, our focus is on having outdoor adventures with our kids that inspire childlike wonder and promote family bonding. We value togetherness and trust; less house but more home.
Don’t get it twisted though. Not having a home of my own makes my heart ache. Each morning I have to choose to surrender this desire to Jesus. If I don’t, if I hold on too tightly, resentment begins to seep through my spirit’s iron grip. I am learning to feel my feelings (maybe even wallow a bit) but then run right back to contentment. It’s usually easy for me to find again. I hear it calling in the boys’ laughter as they swing down from tree limbs and land effortlessly on their feet. I see it in my baby girl’s delighted squeal when her brothers come home for the weekend and in my husband’s furrowed brow as he studies about the lumbar spine.
Yes, I still want a home of my own but I am learning that more than a structure built of bricks and mortar I want a home my children, by instinct, will return to. I want them to know there is more adventure to be had in this life than even imaginable. That it is okay to be guided by unfettered imagination; to live differently, courageously, boldly. To know how to count the cost and live free.