I'm Sure There's a Lesson Here

Just for the record, yesterday's post really wasn't supposed to be so melodramatic. My husband came in to bed just as I was starting a post, and I found that I really didn't want him to see that I was blogging about this--even if not for publication. I'm trying hard not to hurt him with anger and recriminations and be a team player and loving partner and all that while we try to figure out what to do about this mess. I've SAID I'm angry, which is true, but I've also said that it will be okay. Which is true about us, ultimately, but I am honestly not at all sure that it is true about the house or our finances. And if those things wind up not being okay, it is going to take a lot more work and probably counselling (marital and financial) to ensure that our family stays okay.

And it occurs to me over and over again that I'm going to feel pretty damned silly if the lender says "okay" tomorrow and gives us a loan. What does it mean about me that, if the loan comes through, all of this upset and sense of doom and inevitability will go away, and suddenly everything will be great and all our decisions perfectly justified? Surely if there is a lesson to be learned if it all goes wrong, the lesson should still be thee if it only nearly goes wrong but ultimately comes right? And if not, is that because the "lesson" is only a morbid figment of my imagination (more than possible given my particular psyche), or because we (and everybody) so want to believe that being lucky means the same thing as having done right?

Of course, the first lender, the one that was supposed to give us a loan last week, did not say "okay." They said "no." And although John was pleased to hear that this second lender was willing to look at the loan, they actually had MORE things they wanted explained than the first lender did. So I doubt they'll say yes. And if they don't, every other scenario costs us considerable delay and either (a) a lot more money, or (b) literally ALL of our money. And I can't shake the feeling that God, or the universe, strongly felt that we needed a reminder that we were never entitled to anything, and wants us to really consider just how much we are willing to sacrifice for the symbolism of "Safety, warmth, security" of this house. A question that's been nagging at me ever since we decided to buy this perfect house, for a LOT more money than we had ever intended, and a lot more than we would have had to pay for a "very nice" house.

Also for the record, this blog was never supposed to be about whining about how my life is going to be ruined if I can't get a loan to buy the ridiculously expensive house in the D.C. area that we committed to buy while we were grieving over the loss of our ridiculously beautifully situated (if tiny and badly outdated and under-maintained) '50s rancher near the Pacific Ocean. It was supposed to be about the transformation we had worked on our old house, and its tiny lawn with the huge view, before we had to leave it; and about the very different house we're moving to and how it and the design changes we made to it reflects a different set of social and emotional needs; and what became essential even for a very short time to do to our rental house so we could feel at home here while we waited for the new "real" home; and all the things I'm finding on Craigslist and at flea markets to furnish the new house because we've spent all our money on built-ins and porches; and what geography and landscape and architecture and community all mean for identity, and how what we need from our homes can change based on all of that--and maybe even how we integrate ourselves into our new surroundings first by making our mark on our homes. But right now it seems absurd to talk about decorating this new house, and a bit maudlin to be looking back at our first house. Right now, it seems, I need to be focusing on the essentials. Which, it occurs to me, is not the same thing is obsessing about the current problem.

And so I think maybe the lesson here is that we convinced ourselves that our emotional needs are greater than they are, and that they could only be met by having this perfect house that would somehow take care of us. When in fact, reality consists in the lesson that we learned seven and a half years ago, and perhaps--incredibly-- managed to lose sight of: John and I, and now Nathan, can endure anything, live or be anywhere, as long as we have each other. Conversely, without that, no shelter--no matter how well proportioned, well-heated or well-lit--will ever console us. So I guess that's really why I didn't want John to see the blog yet. He's infinitely more necessary to me than a house.