I don’t mean the final frontier. I don’t mean between the lines. I don’t mean the area within one’s personal (or as my son calls it- panic -) bubble. I mean the kind of space that happens when you hear news you more or less expected but didn’t. The kind of news the hearing of which so overwhelms you with what must subsequently happen that your mind totally blanks.
My real estate agent called. Two weeks ago the first 3 houses I had liked went under contract minutes before my offer was made. A little over a week ago one of those houses came back on the market and I made an offer, again. Apparently it was timely because a counter offer came back the next day. So my real estate lady and I discussed a counter to their counter and made the offer. Not sure really what I expected, if anything at all but when the phone rang and my real estate lady, in her unflappable, non-aplomb lilting voice said, “They accepted your counter” I probably should have squealed with delight, or skipped through the house, at least pumped a fist in the air. Not a bit of it. All at once the entirety of: packing, movers, address changes, accountant and tax office notifications, inspections, marketing my own home, renting a van to move plants, fragile and important items –and then some– came bursting into my head. I think I mumbled something of a thank you when she told me she’d be forwarding the paperwork for me to sign and then we signed off.
Then I sat, pen in hand with my mind as empty as the pad of paper before me, to make lists. In the last 10-12 years I have moved house 5 times. You’d think this would be old hat. Evidently not. Because each time was for a reason other than my preference– a job, or to be close to home. This move is completely and entirely of my own choosing– the place, the house, the time. I am beside myself with it.
I hope I snap out of this soon. Evidently my close date is the first week of December.
Ecclesiastes 3; Lamentations 4:19-21