Notes from Maine - 2021/11/21

This was never a perfect house. Twenty years ago, I searched forever to try to find a perfect house. In the next town over, I found a really interesting house with an attached barn. Walking through the front door into a tiny vestibule, one was confronted by five interior doors. They all led to a different segment of the first floor except one that revealed narrow and impossibly steep stairs up to the second floor. These stairs were so shallow and awkward that they were almost a ladder. Deeper in the house there was another flight of stairs that made more sense, but these stairs really caught my attention.

That house had other really interesting features as well. There was a bedroom upstairs that was also a hallway—necessary to get to the end bedroom. In the end, the house was just too close to the highway. When the leaves fell, all that traffic was practically driving right through the side yard.

I looked at another house with second-floor ceilings so low that I could hit my head if I stood on my toes. I’m less than six feet tall, so you can imagine how claustrophobic that house would have been. Todd lived with me here for ten years, and he’s in the 6’ 4” or bigger range. Actually, he might be taller. I can’t remember. Anyway, he would have been crawling in that house. 

I finally settled on this place not because it was perfect but because it didn’t have any disqualifying features. The house was good enough. There was no barn, but space for one. It has enough land for horses, although it’s sort of stretched out. 

Over the years, this house has become the only place that I’m comfortable.

Yesterday, I had to go out of state for the whole day. It wasn’t a chore—it was a completely recreational trip to talk to some people about the electronics projects I’ve been working on. It was fun, but at the same time I could feel a desperate pull to come back. My friend was here with the dogs and horses, so I knew everything was safe, but it was still troubling to be away.

This is why I’m no good at traveling, and vacations. My entire existence is akin to a vacation as long as I don’t have to go anywhere. The beach is fine. A lake is fine. They would be better if they were just at my house.

 I’m pretty sure that I didn’t always feel this way. It’s hard to remember. I want to believe that when I was younger and I did more traveling, I was actually looking for a place like this. I have my family here, and there’s always something interesting to do. I can be alone with my thoughts or invite others in for company. When I really want to explore something surprising and different (this is going to sound silly), I retreat to writing. I fall into a story and see everything unfold before me. My conscious mind turns off and the narrative takes over. 

Recently, I wrote a story about a couple who were very much in love. They faced more adversity than most, but found a way to persevere. When that book was over, I had a warm feeling for days, like I had just visited with my favorite people in the world. I woke up one morning thinking that I should call them and see what they were… Oh. That’s right—I invented them. That was actually a little depressing. Of course I loved those people. They came right from the part of my brain that wanted to love them, so I gave them all the attributes that I would find lovable. They were kind, thoughtful, smart, and gentle people. And even when they did things that were irritating, I knew their struggles & motivations so it was easy to forgive them.

There’s a lesson there, but I’m struggling to put it together. 

I think it might be the same lesson I learned from this house. This house wasn’t perfect when I bought it, but it didn’t have any issues that were so objectionable that I had to reject it. Despite its faults, it became my favorite place. 

Maybe there’s no broader lesson. 

Maybe I’ll just retreat into writing another book and make up fun people to spend time with.