The houses we live in

Eight years ago, when my husband of 33 years transitioned to another and better life, I didn’t know if I could stay in my house. We had bought it together 26 years before. Unfortunately, a poorly designed and written trust left the ownership of the house and of our savings unclear. Even after a lawyer worked on it, the trust could not work well for me. The upshot was: I could live in the house, but I could not sell it. Over the years, I resented the limitations to my life. Yet, now I know that most likely, even if things had been different, I would not have sold the house.

Most of us need a nest. My old house in Santa Barbara is my nest. I never saw it completely that way until recently when Covid-19 locked us in our homes. It is full—too full—of books and objects that I don’t need. It’s big—too big—for me. It’s hard to keep it clean, especially now that I don’t have any domestic help. It has taken discipline to establish a rhythm that allows me to make the house more livable. Everyday I clean and eliminate unwanted objects. I do it for at least an hour and then I tell myself that I need to stop. Then, I look around and notice how much better it feels—cleaner and a bit emptier. I ask for encouragement from Thomas and he agrees that it looks much better. Is he being truthful or just supportive? Never mind. My nest feels better to me.