Now that I've painted the cabinets Ultra White and the the walls varying shades of French Pastry, Pumpkin Cream, Porpoise, and Gentle Rain, I can fess up. While I'd debated buying a house for several months, I pulled the trigger for only one reason. My heart was hurting and I needed something new and big into which I could channel all my angst. I needed to do something on my own to remind myself that I could be happy doing such a thing, just in case that's what the rest of my life looks like.
I don't recommend Buying A House as a form of post-breakup retail therapy. It's mildly irresponsible (maybe super irresponsible but I'm cutting myself some slack) and a lot more work than buying, say, an inappropriately priced pair of heels. That being said, while the timing of my decision may have been inspired by heartache, the result has been invigorating. The work has not eliminated the sadness, but it has put it into context. I have been sad before. This time, I get to be sad in a house with Things To Do.
I always read (and write, but nobody's seeing that!) poetry when I'm sad. And there are a handful of poets that I reread in certain moods. Emily Dickinson's A Not Admitting to the Wound is a pretty fantastic I'm-sad poem, in part because I get a bit Dickinson-esque in such moments. I want nothing better than to sit in some corner with my tea and my notebook, pencil scratches the only sound in my head. My extroverted, optimistic self turns inside out, all exposed nerves and skepticism. But this poem doesn't just feed the sadness, it builds a room for it, nails it in, reminds me that God sees it, loves it, and will, eventually, make use of the scar.
A not admitting of the wound (1188)
A not admitting of the wound
Until it grew so wide
That all my Life had entered it
And there were troughs beside -
A closing of the simple lid that opened to the sun
Until the tender Carpenter
Perpetual nail it down
I've read that poem a thousand times in my life. It sounds like a slow, steady heartbeat to me, in the midst of moments where my own heart feels shaky, prone to skips and jumps. And as I drilled holes in my wall to attach a bookcase, or reattached cabinet doors one painful screw at a time, I heard the "tender Carpenter" so often, encasing that heartache in a sturdy box, gently asking me to hand it over. And in so many small moments of joy, minor victories of home ownership, I wondered if maybe, irresponsible purchasing decision or not, this might have all been part of His plan. He knew about the heartache, and he knew I'd need a house, a hammer, some cabinets in need of attention. This house. These cabinets. Emily. And a tender Carpenter, always.
