Night Time Is The Wrong Time

I think about that Sebastopol house in the middle of the night. Where does the sun first glance off which window on a winter morning? Is that dining room floor decor painted on and restorable? When does the sun come into the kitchen? Could I dance all over the second floor landing, maybe put up a trapeze? Because I've always wanted to have a trapeze, ever since my mother dragged us off to Tallahassee in 1948 and we got to see the Ringling Brothers aerialists practice. That was before I sat down on the red ant hill to tighten my roller skates. What happened next was neither pretty nor fun.

Lying in my Select Comfort bed in the 3 a.m. gloom, wrestling with blankets, I think I can never move anywhere. I don't like going places. I sometimes like being places other than home, it's just getting there. And, if we're talking about New York, I only semi like being there and not at all if I have to take the subway. Unless Pippa is with me, and then I feel brave enough. She shouldn't have a coward for a Nana.

There's a lot to be done at the Sebastopol house. The floors are the beginning. The walls have a dusty patina of neglect. Interior painting will brighten up the atmosphere. I might have thought about feng shui, five or more years ago, but I think I'm over that. Or I won't do it unless the house begs for it. I know a few feng shui house plant and crystal tricks, if I have to appease some awkward corner or misplaced closet door.

But do I want this house? If I get it, will I want it then? Since life in SF is comfortable and livable, do I need to stand everything on its head and sail into uncharted waters? TBC