The day we bought the house in suburban Pennsylvania, our realtor told us, “Congratulations. You’re now part of the American Dream”. The words sat in the air, leaving a phony distaste in my mouth. The papers were signed, the money was transferred, and we were the proud owners of 2,961 square feet of plaster walls and good wood floors. My particular white-picket dream was on a quiet street filled with families and kids. The sprawling, giant backyard had so much potential. I envisioned parties on the big wrap around porch. There was even a claw foot tub in a pink bathroom. It was old and needed cosmetic work, but it was filled with possibility, and I was eager to create something beautiful.
I remember the hours I spent stripping wallpaper on our 9 foot walls. The lyrics I listened to as poetry, the music putting me into a meditative state of peeling and scraping. The Saturday I spent ripping up neon green carpet, fingers tainted with glue-be-gone and wood polish. The vacillating as I took ten paint samples and wiped each carefully against the window trim, wondering if “paper white” was too warm against the cold-toned wood. The couches I sat on, the blogs I read, the weeds I ripped in the yard. I took joy in accumulating each object, as they all came with stories. Slowly, I filled up each room.
The original, dark wood windows didn’t keep the heat very well. My husband wrapped the windows in plastic wrap, using my hair dryer to create a seam. When the wind blew, the inflated wrapping puffed up like a warm pastry. He didn’t turn the heat on.
I was always cold in that house. I wrapped my thin body in sweatpants and a sweatshirt before bed, and then put on thick, woolen socks to keep my feet warm for sleep. Most nights, I went to sleep alone.
When I smiled as I heard the laughter of kids playing in the summer night, my husband grumbled. When I giggled as I drank a glass of wine on the porch in the rain with my girlfriends, my husband sneered. When I was soothed by the sound of the train in the winter, passing right behind our window, my husband whined about the noise.
Eventually, the tears soaked my pillow at night, and I had thrown one too many plates against the wall. What took years to acquire left the wide front door in moments. The house sold instantly. Neighbors came one by one to take the furniture, loading the antiques I bargained for into their family minivans. The moving men arrived, I explained the situation, and they worked wordlessly, rewarded with our near-full bottles of liquor. What had I done with my wedding dress? A friend came and took it, like a thief in the night, so that I may never have to see it again.
I took one last look at the clawfoot tub. I never even took a bath inside.
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This essay came from a prompt on “clearing space” as part of my Winter Writing Sanctuary I’m doing over ten days. Thank you
for leading this! When I have physically and energetically cleared space in my life, the most amazing things have come back to me. Sometimes I was allowing things in my life I didn’t even realize, and it took that one extra step of removing any possible ties to sever the cord. I’d love to know, is there anything you’re “clearing space” for this January?I’m taking it slow and focusing on my writing. If you too are inspired to take it slow, here are some great January reads:
- ‘s round-up on setting intentions for 2024.
- ‘s beautiful essay about traveling home for the holidays.
- ‘s lessons on uncertainty from 2023.
- ’s article on purpose and career.
Wow I felt that, I’ve been in a similar place at a different time... Thank you for sharing ❤️
Beautiful essay, Brenna. Thank you for sharing CSBC! Happy new year!