George and I went to the center of our state last weekend, looking for a home. Wow. It has resurrected fears, insecurities and phobias. I am not surprised. I go through this every time we move or make a 'home decision'.
Multiple moves, purchases and commitments have not changed a thing. I still feel the shifting sands beneath my feet. I still agonize over whether we can afford it (we are paying cash), whether we will be happy (we always are), whether the kids will be happy (they always are), whether we will regret our decision (we really haven't, ever). Life pretty much goes on as before, with a different location. We are nothing, if not stable.
That should give me solace. Oh, no. I am Irish and I am female. I need to perseverate on stuff. I need to worry and dwell, I need to stalk the peat bogs in the freezing fog with long, soaked wool skirts, thick hair curling in drenched strands around my furrowed brow. I need to stomp into a warm stable, thick with the smell of horse and hay, pour out my laments to the farm cat, and finally reach a difficult decision, bravely, of course.
Oh, shut up. Like you don't have your own fantasies. What I mean is, this is a grown up decision that I (again) feel unqualified for. But, George and I will confer, cogitate, scribble, weigh, and finally, commit.
Meanwhile, I will act according to my culture.
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