Longer Between Strikes

Not sure what to write tonight, other than I am feeling what transition purgatory must be like.

We are *maybe*, nearly, likely close to an offer, and wouldn't that be nice. Sales people are hinting and crossing their fingers until it's firm, and every day that slips away slips from the sense of discovery that imprints a home on a buyer. Their dreams need to include it, to settle on just this one, and that happens in a snap.  And here we have the perfect buyers who are waiting on a counter, I'm sure to try on other homes for size.

Thoughts race. The price is too high. It doesn't have enough square footage. The street is busier than they want. The carpet is too dark. All of these problems are unfixable things, and I feel out of patience and perseverence. Someone needs to remind me that it only takes one to alter our course.

Last weekend we saw a house. On a lark we took down the address and drove by. It is on an acre of land, 10 minutes from town. The farmhouse was built in 1902, and there was a worktruck out front. The hubs' curiosity got the better of him as it always does, and he confidently walked on up. Moments later he popped out and gestured for me to come, and that the chatty electrician had invited us in.

I suppose it was inevitable to fall in love with the place given the fact we were pseudo-trespassing. It had been renovated, modernized, and brought up to code with wiring and duct work. New kitchen and baths, flooring and windows, each room full of century charm and delightful surprises. Almost all of the living space downstairs, with a giant bonus room up. Did I mention the quiet peace of the land, set among fields of vegetables? It sits atop a well and septic, neither of which we know anything about.

Crackle, crackle, I remember now, this is what it takes to motivate a looker into a buyer. It takes walking into a home and feeling the fit. Seeing themselves there. Putting furniture against the walls, trimming the plants, having a bbq by the pool. Imagining the sweet life.

Lightning strikes when you're finding your home.  It feels involuntary, at least to me, like the house picks you. Once it grabs you, and you reach for the ring, the rest is mostly about holding your breath and waiting.