To state so as to be understood clearly or accepted readily

Yesterday was so busy. So many last-minute things that needed to be done. An oil change for the car so it will get him safely through the Rockies, new clothes for his first week at the new job, laundry, packing, tuning up the bikes, grocery shopping for travel snacks to keep him awake, many phone calls to ensure realtors, brokers, parents, friends and family all know how to reach him, and a zillion other little details. By the end of the day we were all dog tired (especially the dogs) but couldn't sleep because it was so hot upstairs. I don't think we could have slept anyway, feeling the way one does the night before a big event, running mental checklists and wondering if the alarm clock still works.

When it rang at 5:30 I barely heard it. I awoke again at 5:41 and he was already downstairs getting coffee ready. Just time for a kiss goodbye and he was gone. Not enough time to cry. I stumbled back to bed and slept until 8:30. And then immediately phoned him to make sure he was still awake and safe and driving carefully.

*

I've been frustrated by the real estate market in the district of Vancouver we'll be moving to because it seems to be saturated with giant mansions that are designed to accommodate huge extended families who want to cohabit. Not only are these enormous houses completely ill-suited to our needs, they also seem to be somewhat shoddily built. And more than that, what has bothered me here and bothers me there is that newer houses are built so close together that one can almost lean out the window to nibble on the neighbours' fingernails out of nervousness caused by living in cramped quarters. I know it's nonsensical to feel cramped (if one is living in a 3800 square foot house) but somehow it seems as though we're all living in each other's hip pockets and it makes me want to scream.

The older I get the less I find I can tolerate people.

I am cranky and impatient.

I don't want to hear the neighbours' music. I don't want to see their beer cans glittering in the sun beside my window. I don't want their cigarette butts on my lawn. I don't want to hear their muffler-less cars roaring up and down.

I'm a miserable person. We have quite pleasant neighbours. I just don't like people.

Yesterday as we surfed through the MLS listings, a pastime to which we have become somewhat addicted lately, something new occurred to me.

What occurred to me as I looked and looked at MLS, trying to find a house that was small enough to clean and which had some distance from the neighbours... was that we don't have live in that kind of neighbourhood this time. We've been caught up looking at newer houses because that's just what we've gotten used to. But, if I look at a neighbourhood a scant four blocks to the west that's twenty years older, a lot of things are different.

These houses are still too damn big. But they're on plots of land that are between a quarter and a half an acre!

Suddenly moving looks a lot more exciting.

Shawn called the mortgage broker to tell him we needed to wangle a slightly higher mortgage. The broker says he'll work on it and call us back.

Shawn called the realtor and told him we need to look at properties in this area instead. He said he would arrange it.

And that was what precipitated the change in plans to get Shawn out there a day earlier. Motivated by greed we packed his suitcases with drool on our lips.

I am keeping my fingers crossed that our quarter acre is out there somewhere.

*

"You know what I've been thinking while we're trying to find our new house?"

"That you hate me for making you move again?"

"No."

"What then?"

"I've been thinking that we've really lost perspective."

We have really lost perspective. I lived in a one bedroom apartment in downtown Calgary so small I had to use my boxes of books as furniture. And I felt like I had everything because I could see the Bow River through my window. I didn't dream of having more. I played my guitar and sang out loud to keep from feeling lonely.

Later, I shared my living quarters with various roommates, wonderful and difficult, and felt like I was on a great adventure. I stuffed a towel against the crack beneath my bedroom door to keep out the pot smoke while I tried to sleep. (It didn't work.)

When I bought my first home, I thought I'd probably stay there forever. It had a tiny yard, big enough for four patio chairs and a barbecue. I painted it and made it beautiful. A board of directors decreed what could be planted outside and what needed trimming. Once I arrived home to find one of my hedges had been chopped down. There was no say about things like this. The neighbours had a fondness for Cher on Sunday mornings. I was happy there too.

When we arrived here I was staggered by how different it was to live in a completely detached house. So many more responsibilities, and so much more autonomy. A sump pump. Rough grades and final grades and sod and fences and city bylaws dictating snow shoveling etiquette. (My god, we're going to live somewhere where people don't shovel snow.)

And still, even here, with all our space and freedom and choices, we suddenly found ourselves wanting things like a jetted tub, hardwood floors, vaulted ceilings... However did we get so greedy?

I look at the new house we're leaving behind and realise that although we never lived there, subconsciously we are still in the process of trying to upgrade from there. What's left to acquire? The answer is space. Distance.

If we had to go backward a few steps now we might be ungracious. We might feel ourselves deprived. And that bothers me a lot. We've been so lucky. I need us to remember where we started and to appreciate the wonderful life we have together. And how perfect each step has been.

I feel a little afraid that I might be a selfish creep for wanting to live on a piece of land that will give me the space and distance that I dream of. I always feel like I don't deserve good things.

*

I used to be afraid of making wishes out loud because I wanted disappointment, when it happened, to be a secret. I wasn't able to share that feeling with anyone. Felt like public failure.

And so when I applied for jobs, I never told anyone unless I got the job. When I wanted something I never mentioned it until it was already achieved. It was a way of doing things meant to protect me from having anyone know that things weren't perfect.

That's something in me that has changed. I have started to share my dreams more both with friends and with family. I've gotten better at saying, I wish. That means I'm less afraid of being disappointed. And more emotionally prepared to admit it to others, that disappointment exists. It's being more human, more vulnerable.

*

Shawn is deep in the mountains now. He just phoned from the cell phone and said,

"Brrr--ma--- annee--mot--hed--chchch--" before the service cut out.

Fortunately, he was able to call again a few minutes later to tell me he was alive and well before it cut out once again. He'll be in Kamloops soon.

I miss him so much already and he's only been gone five hours.

*