Dreaming Home into Being

by transforming my perspective

Hello Friends,

We are living in transformative times, whether for good or ill. (For two fascinating astrological perspectives on the why of these chaotic times, read Juliana Swanson’s Astral Harmony Substack or Susan Wittig Albert’s Growing Green With the Zodiac newsletter.) Transformative times are an invitation to transform ourselves, to risk new perspectives and paths in life, hard and scary as that may be.

My recent epiphany about accommodating others in choosing the houses I have bought and re-storyied—rather than choosing those houses for my own needs—was my invitation. It felt like a call from the universe to be courageous and allow my oldest and dearest house-dreams a chance to come real.

My dream home

For as long as I can remember, back into early childhood, I have carried an image of what home meant for me: a brick Victorian cottage with a peaked tin roof and lots of windows to light the inside, set in a shady grove of trees with places to sit and take in views of nearby mountains, and a cottage garden bursting with flowers out front.

A cozy space inside and out that felt like a refuge but still connected to the community. A place to garden for hummingbirds and butterflies, to grow some of my own food, to nurture my terraphilia. Walking distance to town, but not in the thick of things; a place that felt both intimate and spacious.

Where this image came from, I have no idea. I am a child of the suburbs, raised in an ordinary 1960s ranch house set in a rectangular street grid that replaced farmland, which itself replaced open prairie.

Over the years and moves and changes, as botany and writing and marriage and raising a step-kid tugged me this way and that, I would sometimes catch a glimpse of something resembling my dream place, but it never materialized.

That brick cottage…

Three years ago, when I was looking for a house in Paonia, a little arts-and-organic-farming town in the North Fork Valley of Western Colorado, I spotted a small brick house on a big lot at the edge of town, with a view down the valley.

My dream in the flesh, and it was for sale. I tried to buy the house, but the timing was wrong: a bidding war in the housing frenzy at the end of the pandemic. I couldn’t afford to compete.

Fast-forward to a few days ago when my rental house fell through and then I learned that the little brick cottage was on the market again: still too expensive, still calling my heart.

I went to see it. And fell in love all over again.

Peonies for Paonia

Transforming my perspective

I thought hard about what really mattered to me, what home meant, and why this dream has stuck with me from childhood. About what I could “afford” according to conventional financial wisdom versus what I could afford if I trusted my gut and the universe.

I realized that I couldn’t afford to not make an effort to fulfill my dream. So I made an offer. Not full price. The owners countered, I took a deep breath, re-calculated my available money, and countered their counter-offer. And then waited, heart in hand.

The sellers accepted. I wanted to dance with joy and holler so loud the sound wave would travel around the earth. Instead, I took a long walk and texted friends and family with my euphoric news.

Going home

If all goes well, I will move into my dream home on June 18th, two days before Summer Solstice. I will be home-rich, cash-poor. Really cash poor. But finally, at long last, my heart will be home.

The moral of this story: Transformation comes from the Latin roots for “across,” in the sense of opposite, and “mold.” Transformative times ask us to change, to open our eyes to new ways of seeing and being. To oppose the boundaries.

To take a hard look at ourselves, to shed beliefs and directions and personas that no longer serve us, to oppose rigidity and dogma. To open ourselves to creative and innovative ways of fulfilling our deepest dreams.

Which may not take exactly the form or shape we imagined, but that’s a story for another day.

Blessings, Susan