Early June, my landlords informed me that they are no longer interested in maintaining the quirky and adorable farmhouse that we have called home for the past five years. It is scheduled to be demolished in September. I had until the end of the summer to find a new place, pack, and round up enough funds to manage a security deposit and first month's rent (anywhere from 3-5k depending on what I could find). Rental companies wanted to make sure I could prove 3x the rent as my income (spoiler alert: I can’t nor even fathom making 4-7k a month).
In addition to this, I had taken on the job of admin for a summer camp. This is on top of my jobs as a church admin, PRN (as needed) hospital chaplain, and freelance writer. Plus, keeping four children alive. My ex, while helpful as he can be, had to be gone for over four weeks this summer for National Guard duties. To say this was stressful would be putting it mildly.
Naturally, the car also decided it would need a few hundred dollars in repairs. Because why not?
By early August, I had found a place that would work for my family. During June and July, we packed and sorted through the household's superfluous items. The actual move took place over the first two weeks of August. Naturally, this overlapped with band camp and swimming lessons. Oh, and making sure everyone has their sports physicals done. And getting vaccine records. And filling out all the paperwork for back to school. And, and, and.
Did I forget anything? Most likely.
I used this opportunity to dispose of broken furniture and household items, and to move along clothing that is outgrown, stained, or ripped. I got rid of a few books and packed up most of them. I shed many tears over the loss of the beautiful willow tree, let my garden become feral, and gave up any intention of keeping screen time to less than three hours a day. Many friends showed up in various ways. They washed my dishes, threw out items from my fridge and freezer, and filled and emptied the backs of their trucks and trailers. It was different from the last time I moved, which was during COVID, while I was pregnant, and the older three children were not particularly helpful. This time, my 14-year-old, 5’10” son could help lift furniture along with his friends. My 12-year-old daughter took delight in organizing and reorganizing her own space and assisting others to do the same.
Moving from one house to another is not just a challenge of logistics. There is also a sentimental and emotional component. For one thing, this leaving was not my choice. It was forced upon me by decisions beyond my control. Many people’s first reaction when I shared the news was, “But Caitlin, you love that house!” And it’s true, I love that house. Very soon, it will turn to rubble, and who knows what will happen to the magical willow tree? However, it was never mine in the sense of American ownership.
It was mine in spirit, a place that I felt a deep sense of belonging. It was mine in practice, tending the flowers, reviving raspberry bushes, shoveling snow. It was mine in presence, a place where I cooked meals, read books, watched TV, and played games. It was home.
There are many sentiments to express about the concept of home. It’s where the heart is, it’s not a place, blah, blah, blah. It is what we make of it. It’s the people with whom we share it. Yes, all of this is true, and also the place where life happens and we are all formed is real. Being tied to a place is also an expression of home.
Being an American seems to mean being transient in some way. My ancestors crossed oceans, prairies, forests, and mountains, forcing other people out along their way. My grandparents do not reside in the same state they were born in, nor do my parents, nor do I. Stories of immigrants and pioneers fill my family tree (and criminals, teachers, soldiers, Quakers, Mormons, Germans, Swedes, Brits, etc). To be American is often not to be tied to the land. And yet the concept of a Dream House, a forever home, remains a capitalistic construct. It is shoved down our throats by billionaires who own multiple houses, millionaires collecting dwellings like seashells, all to avoid taxes and live for mere weeks out of the year.
News outlets, social media, podcasters, and politicians pontificate on what makes America great. As this great political machine slips further into authoritarianism, it is clear that its ideal American home has an incredibly narrow definition. Pro-life - but only for fetuses, not for the many children who must do lockdown drills because of the number of school shootings. Pro-white, except for the people who harvest the vast fields that feed us, profiling any skin tone that seems a shade too dark for ICE. Pro-faith, specifically the ones that tell women to submit to men and hide abuse, and do nothing to provide support for mental health. Pro-education, as long as it highlights the stories that make white people feel good about themselves.
I loved my home and cried when I saw that it had become a pile of rubble. It means so little to the people who own the land, an investment to them rather than a place of belonging. I feel uprooted and still a little shocked, even as I arrange our physical possessions in a new space. We are adjusting our routines and using the time to develop some new habits. There are good things about a new home, and we will grow into it our way.
The American Dream was once a nice idea: a car in every garage, a chicken in every pot, yada, yada. But it is not my dream, it is not the dream of the centuries of indigenous people who were pushed away from their homes at gunpoint. It is not the dream of the immigrants who were unwitting agents of the oppressor in moving forward with the conquest of the West. It is not the dream of the slaves who were stolen from their homes and separated from their families by greed.
It is a dream of peace, a kingdom of equity and compassion.
He shall not judge by what his eyes see
or decide by what his ears hear,
but with righteousness he shall judge for the poor
and decide with equity for the oppressed of the earth;
he shall strike the earth with the rod of his mouth,
and with the breath of his lips he shall kill the wicked.
Righteousness shall be the belt around his waist
and faithfulness the belt around his loins.The wolf shall live with the lamb;
the leopard shall lie down with the kid;
the calf and the lion will feed together,
and a little child shall lead them.
The cow and the bear shall graze;
their young shall lie down together;
and the lion shall eat straw like the ox.
The nursing child shall play over the hole of the asp,
and the weaned child shall put its hand on the adder’s den.
They will not hurt or destroy
on all my holy mountain,
for the earth will be full of the knowledge of the Lord
as the waters cover the sea.Isaiah 11:3-9
Thanks for reading Caitlin Chats! This post is public, so feel free to share it.
Two of my kids are learning French (one in high school), and one is informally on her own. So we are making a playlist of songs in French, naturellement.
Over the summer, we watched the extended edition of The Lord of the Rings. While I was steeped in the cultural phenomena that it was, I have not really rewatched it since becoming a parent. More thoughts on the whole experience coming soon!
One of the last things that I did before moving out of the old house was harvest the onions, potatoes, and anything that I felt could ripen off of the vine. It was a bittersweet moment, but I am grateful for all those items that are still of value even after I have left the land.
May this week bring love to your senses and your soul.
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.