My Addiction to Realtor.com

It’s not a joke.

A few days ago I found myself glued to realtor.com, my eyes glazed over with the same glossy magazine cover look the boys get when they go on terrarium.com.

I was in bed and needed to peruse four more pages in order to find the exact right place for us to build our new dream home, when suddenly, seemingly with no warning, my battery died.

I looked at Joe who lay next to me, looking at different vintage cars on his laptop. His face had the same supernatural glow.

My eyes filled up and my heart sank.

This is what we do. We research. We study. We educate ourselves on better ways to do everything we do. Better lawn care products. The best dairy free, protein-rich yogurt substitute.

More humane ways to keep mice out of the house.

It’s okay.

Some of it enriches our lives. But we never stop. There is never enough enrichment. Never enough bettering of our lives, our selves, our children, our home.

I did not go plug my laptop in. I sat still, looked out our window at our beautiful backyard and asked myself WHY I am house hunting again. I had no good reason.

And then my throat and chest got tight.

I am looking for a beautiful, magical place where I am not.

A place I can pour myself into but never fully occupy, because then what?

Do I die? If I stop moving and changing and forging bigger, brighter paths, then what? This terrifies me.

A good part of my identity resides in speed, efficiency and productivity. I was raised on full steam ahead and the early bird catches the worm.

But occasionally life does that time warp thing.

Everything slows down for a few seconds and shows you a snapshot of what is happening.

I am looking at beautiful hand-hewn beams in a waterfront kitchen overlooking a great room fireplace in someone else’s house on-line when the man I love more than I could ever say is in bed right beside me.

I am studying Google earth satellite shots to see how close in proximity the neighbors are for a plot of land available overlooking the reservoir when I could be studying the proximity of summer sprouted freckles on either of our two beautiful sons’ noses.

I am manufacturing totally unnecessary tasks out of fear.

We don’t need to move. In fact, the idea is completely absurd.

But I have no real role models for slowing down and leading a meaningful life without getting cancer and passing away two years later.

No one ever said what to do if you if you want to get off the train and take in the scenery.

This was either lazy, irresponsible or both.

But, I got a small clue this morning.

I went out and pruned all the hydrangea and rose bushes along our stonewall. I gathered a sea of flowers and arranged them all over the house. And as I cleaned the sheers and put them in the drawer, it came to me.

I have entered a tending phase.

A fine-tuning phase, wherein I don’t decide to have another child, move to a new house, find a different career or switch school systems.

Okay, I haven’t actually considered having another child.

But the other possibilities are pretty much monthly re-evaluations. I re-assess and recalculate virtually the same list of pros and cons as if it was entirely new.

I am pretty sure I was a goldfish in my last life.

This new phase is not about blazing new paths or forging new initiatives. It is not about reinventing, reimagining or reenergizing.

It is about caring.

Tending to the small things, that makes the big things, like love, possible.

It is about being and observing and then serving.

No ripping out the dead-looking hydrangea but pruning it far back to where new growth has a chance to thrive and being okay with a lack of immediate fullness. Relishing even, the opportunity to see something small flourish.

It is like Finn and I beginning our dairy-free journey to see if it makes a small difference in our wellbeing.

This being business is a bit tricky.

It involves slowing down and trusting that we won’t become extinct. Time won’t run out. In fact it might come rushing in.