I moved every one or two years as a child. House to house, town to town, state to state. We were not a military family. We were chasing the American dream, I guess. A path up out of debt.
My husband and I bought a house when Noah was six months old. We chose a two-story home with an open floor plan so we could keep track of our bouncing baby boy. When I say “bouncing,” by the way, I mean it. Noah bounced happily on his bottom from room to room until he accidentally bounced to his feet. Then he started jumping. He is still jumping. Anyway, this house we bought I have lived in longer than any other building in my life. Longer than any other town or any other state.
It makes me feel positively claustrophobic.
Seriously. How do people do this? This staying in one place drives me mad. Before marriage, I was sure I would travel the world pausing only to take pictures and write. My husband is a putting-down-roots sort of person. We did travel to Lebanon early on in our marriage, and we hope to travel other places off the U.S. map, but for now we go where we can get in a day and with as little stress as possible. Which brings me back to furniture.
I rearrange my furniture a minimum of every three months. My downstairs is known to change monthly. Left alone in the house for an extended period of time, I will “reset” every single room and feel mighty pleased with myself. Well, I went to visit one of my very best friends in the world recently and decided to relocate some of her furniture . . . to my house.
I have new-to-me couches! It makes the whole house feel practically new. Well, when you combine the couches with the repairs happening in our office due to a water leak, there’s a lot of change in a small space. It’s fabulous. Like chewing mint and parsley after a garlic-heavy meal. Haven’t tried that? You should.