In the late afternoons recently I've gotten into the ritual of pausing at my kitchen window and gazing at the setting sun turning the foothills of the Sangre de Cristos pink. If there are clouds, they will be lit pink too, for a few fleeting moments. It's majestic, and it tugs at my heart.
Behind me is my dream kitchen, and beyond that, my dream house. It seems like only yesterday I was signing the escrow papers, the realtor texting a picture of me, pen in hand, beaming, to my love who was behind in another state waiting for his house to sell so he could join me. Signing those papers was the culmination of years of dreaming, scheming, and searching for the house that was to be our first home together and the start of a new, shared life. I had no idea that less than 90 days later he would abandon me and our dreams without warning or explanation and leave me with my entire life in shambles.
The house is for sale. I have a morning ritual too, lighting a candle and sending my intention to the Universe of letting the light guide the new owners here, to what I wish will be a place of happiness and love for them. It's taken a long time, but I am at peace with this. While I am grateful that this house has held me to it's sturdy breast during what has been the absolute worst and hardest time of my life, I am ready to move on and start a new dream.
I have been a good steward of this lovely old house, and it has absorbed my tears as well as accepted my fussings and polishings and admiration of it, just as it has heard me cuss it out when the roof leaks again. I've left my mark on her in hundreds of small ways, as she has on me.
I've put the old dream to bed and have a new dream in mind. While I know it will be hard to leave those pink foothills and this old house behind, I've said my goodbyes over the course of over two years now. When I drive away for the last time, I know I won't glance back.