The past few months have been a whirlwind. Hubby and I sat with his mother while she was very ill, we were with her when she died, we buried her in the snow and cold, drove home and packed our house of 13 years in two weeks, loaded a UHaul truck, drove through multiple states, unloaded the truck, and took up residence in Rapid City for the winter. We’re physically and emotionally exhausted.

As the dust settled, Hubby and I stood at the door of our rented 12-by-30-foot storage unit and observed all our belongings. Everything we own takes up less than half of that space. After 44 years of marriage, we don’t have a lot of stuff which pleases me but is sobering. Most people our age have garages full of things so are we missing something? I hope not.

We’re housesitting for Hubby’s aunt and uncle for the winter. The timing of their offer was great because we wanted to sell our house but had no place to go. We’re grateful for a nice, comfortable place to live while we consider our options and make big decisions about what happens next. What a blessing!

What has surprised me is how much it bothers me not to have a home of my own. I’m in someone else’s place, using their kitchen things, sleeping in their bed, sitting on their furniture, and watching their TV. We’re not doing anything wrong and we’re taking good care of their home, but an unsettled feeling swirls underneath my gratitude. This isn’t my home. I’m homeless.

What is it about having our own stuff around makes us feel better? I think it’s familiarity and control over something we can control, namely our home environment. The known is comforting. Especially in these weird times, any place of refuge is welcome.

I know my uneasy feelings are nothing compared to the anxiety and stress of those who are truly homeless. I feel guilty for feeling the way I do. Keeping others in mind will help me overcome my own selfishness and help me change my attitude. I’m helping someone else out by keeping the houseplants watered and making sure everything is okay. I’m blessed.

I’m not worried about having things to do This winter. I have books to write and books to read. My box of books labeled “Winter Reading” is in the garage ready to be opened. My coloring books and colored pencils are in there too. I hope to get my Christmas romance novel ready for release next year. Getting back to writing will feel very good. Not having written on my book in months may be the reason why I feel so unsettled. A lot of characters want out of my head and onto paper. While Hubby and I are homeless, we’re still very grateful for a place to stay. We are excited about our next adventure. Stay tuned to hear what it is.

5 Responses

  1. My mom just went into hospice. That meant they took out her bed and her wheelchair and installed theirs. Now when I visit her , all that is hers is a dresser, a desk and a closet full of clothes she no longer wears. Nearly 100 years of her life is represented by that dab of stuff. But while she doesn’t speak much, when I remind her of events and loved people, it’s apparent they are still inside her head and her heart. That’s what is forever.

    Looking forward to your next book, friend.

  2. Your adventures life can be a great story to write about. I wish you luck and a smooth rest of life in your new chapter. You will be missed meeting at McDonald’s in Meridian.

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