I like to sit at the top of my stairs and just consider the fact that this is my house. Despite the fact that not everything is going to get done this year (that I wanted to get done, that is,) it is still my house. And I like it very much.

I like the fact that I have a place to do the things I love, like crafting, and baking and collecting. I like that it's quiet here, and only the faint sursurrus of wheels on the pavement outside reminds me that I'm really in the middle of town and not in the middle of nowhere.

This is not my dream house. I'm not sure my dream house really exists, in truth, except in my dreams and Beth-Hill. :) But this house will suit me for a long time, I hope, and I will enjoy my time in it. And I hope it will enjoy my time in it as well.

There are things about my house I wish I knew, and things I probably wish I had never found out (the burned hole in the floor comes to mind...), but all of these things are part of my house's history. To cover them up and pretend they never existed would hide a piece of my house's history.

Just like the antiques that surround me, my house was meant to be lived in. To be used. To be worn. To be scraped and marked and sometimes, burned. That's living, after all. We can't escape it unmarked.

I think that's another reason why I don't like new houses. Everything is too clean, too perfect. The first mark on the wood floors--that first scuff on new paint--is a glaring issue, instead of just another wrinkle in the skin of the house. That's also the reason why I prefer my furniture already broken in. That way, if I do spill something, or there's an accident that doesn't wipe up, it's just another scar. Another piece of history in the making.

Museums are nice things, but I'd rather have my quilts covering beds instead of hung on the walls or draped over a chair. (I have too many to do that, so they are on display. But they're accessible. They aren't not to be touched.) Sure, I'm careful with my things, and I try not to add to the grime of time, but sometimes things happen. Life happens.

Perhaps this is why I tend to feel sorry for broken inanimate objects. They were made to be used, after all, and they were used. Used up and discarded, like as not, and they rust quietly in some field, or a dump, or the back of a shed, never to see the light of day again. A broken doll was some long-ago child's plaything. A faded photograph was once a treasured memento, now forgotten.

If I could choose one magical power in the world, it would be the ability to communicate with the objects around me. I would love to hear their stories.

Instead, I have to be satisfied with my imagination, which is sometimes a pale comparison to the truth.

(Just some thoughts on a rainy evening... now I'm going to take a crack at crossing something off my list.)


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