I've been looking for a home. An actual home with no shared walls. With no sounds of the city outside my door. Back to Bellingham I go.
Once I (finally) sell this co-op apartment in the now formerly gay neighborhood of Capitol Hill, Seattle, I'll be free to move back to the town that supplies my livelihood and lifelong friends. I've aborted the home search for now, as offers laden with contingencies are unfavorable and unlikely to win the acceptance of the sellers. But all is not lost, as I've looked at many homes and only a single one stole my heart: an already pending midcentury rambler. I continued looking at true crafstmans and imitation crafstmen, craftsmen that have been terribly updated and craftsmen that were out of my price range. I've seen victorians and georgian revivals and newer homes that prominently featured their garages as their best foot forward. Only the midcentury rambler still nags at me.
Last night, awake again at 4 a.m.--decision-making sleep disturbance, according to chinese medicine--I had the realization that this is my chance to buy the home I want. Getting there isn't going to be easy and sacrifices are going to have to be made to afford the luxury of sitting and waiting for the right home to appear. I can do this. Elaina and I can do this.