Zappos had exactly one pair of black suede kitten heel boots in size
7.5 on clearance, and they were meant to be mine. In a big big hurry, the
online deal was closed without much thought, and I smugly looked forward to a
stylish future (at a good price). Later that day, e-mail happily proclaimed the
boots of my dreams winging their way to me with an ETA of exactly one business
day. The message said they would soon be waiting in splendor on the front door
step—of our former home in Atlanta. Alas, I had neglected to change my default shipping address. Oh boy.
That metaphoric house sitting at the top of the hill I came down
almost five years ago has played my heart and mind with the mastery of a
skillful symphony maestro. And I thought I had become newly amazing in February
when I finally found the courage to look up at it as I walked by one Sunday
evening—a big deal meriting a self-congratulatory moment about moving ever onwards.
Now a snappy pair of boots was making me do what I believed I could never do—go
back up that hill and see the place that often appears in drifting
thoughts of the past.
The family now making that house their own special place is warm and
kind—especially to a former resident with a sentimental attachment to what most
everyone else in the whole world recognizes as simply bricks, mortar, and wood.
But beyond the array of building materials artfully fashioned together, there
are crazy intangibles made of up souls and memories existing only in that spot, my
children’s official childhood home, thoughtfully built with bright expectations
found in a different time and place. Without a doubt, these reflections are bolder
because life took a different direction leading to a leave of the hill in challenging circumstances.
So on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon, I found myself going back up a familiar concrete driveway. I smiled passing my mother’s last little
ornamental Christmas tree planted there in 2007, and didn't quite recognize the cedars and crepe myrtles that had somehow stretched way high into the
azure sky. When I reached the top, I was standing in intimacy once again with
the tall brown brick façade of an old friend. The front door opened and I was
standing in the house on the hill.
There was beauty I had long ago forgotten in every direction. The
first thing captivating my attention was a fabulous wrought iron dining room
chandelier. With graceful arms of subtly gold-tipped leaves flowing with
shimmering crystal droplets, I marveled at its magnificence and was surprised
to learn I had selected it in a lifetime long ago. There was gleaming and
pristine white woodwork under impossibly high ceilings—smooth and also perfect
white—complimented by heavy wood molding everywhere I looked.
Like a tourist at Versailles, I was a stranger in a strange land
marveling at splendor. I was surrounded by what used to be scenery from every day
life but is now someone else's tasteful interior design and a special occasion for me. I wanted to touch everything I
saw, partly to admire it again (like long lost friends), partly to conjure up
memories of the kids being little, and also to inventory where I have been and
where I am going since the last defining days in that place.
My visit continued through spacious rooms with amazing wood windows
and across hardwood floors stretching forever. Just beyond tall French doors
leading to the backyard, bright but vague apparitions of little Annabelle and
her neighborhood BFFs looked back at me from the much-loved swings on the playset.
In the family room I could see a small William lying on the sofa watching
SportsCenter and, if I squinted my eyes just right, I could see an ethereal
(highly) decorated Christmas tree standing in the corner by the bookshelves and
windows.
My gracious host was indulgent, letting me admire her exquisite home and enjoy a sojourn into kaleidoscopic yesterdays for just a little
while. It was sweet being back in the only place where flashes of days gone by
live in perpetuity, vivid and tangible. I was suddenly grateful and glad my
boots had landed me in that place.
Beyond the visages and images found solely in my head, little pieces
of our days happily remain and are made better by their now-owners. Precious new children love the playset where Annabelle’s initials are carved in the wood. Pretty hydrangeas I received as gifts from various friends years ago flourish today
because there is someone way better at gardening than I to love and pamper
them.
But the sweetest holdover for me is in the kitchen. On our last day at that address, the physical and emotional workload of clearing out
possessions was overwhelming, and my sainted realtors and I worked with a
daunting 5:00 p.m. deadline. Bad decision made on top of bad decision was the rule of the day, and many things—from trash to treasures—found their hurried benediction in a heap of seemingly unwanted belongings at the bottom of the
hill.
Eventually my successor as lady of the house arrived at her new home and spotted a
really lovely, fresh picture of a long stemmed, purple flowered plant in
an elegant cornflower blue and white container, abandoned on the mountain of
remnants. She thoughtfully rescued it from an imminent one-way journey on a garbage truck. And now the memento from the earlier days in the life of that house graces a perfect spot on the kitchen wall, brought back up the the hill by a woman with a heart for special things.
My life now looks little like the one back in that Atlanta house,
and I am good with that. I will concede living in a really beautiful home
is an exceptional privilege, but this other way of life is fine, too, and comes with
peace. Subtle peace found in a small, slightly dowdy--but somewhat charming—home for the children and me. Peace that is a by-product found in acknowledging and being in the place where you know you are supposed to be. There is beauty to be found in a new life lived from another perspective. While our
accommodations are unlike those found on a hill in Georgia, I am ever thankful for having been there and for the wonderful people who populate the scenery--in both places, and points beyond.
I appreciate kind new friends who graciously allow a sappy, sentimental woman to stop by for a wayward package and let her admire the
present and look fondly at the past. And I am grateful to a God who seems to have a great deal of confidence in me and who works in
crazy ways to make me go back up a hill to really see and understand where He has taken me in the five
years since He brought me down off of it.
Thank you so much, Whitney.
