Home Sweet Home

The house had been on the market for eight weeks. It's the only thing pinning me to Atlanta and it must sell for me to leave the country. To help things along, I use the "write it down, make it happen" method; a documentation of visualizing the house selling. I write in my journal on Saturday, Nov. 13th, about how the perfect buyer shows up, falls in love with the sweet little cottage and the sale goes through smoothly. As written, the buyers arrive the next day, on Sunday afternoon. They are a young couple, newly married, and they love the house, the woodburning stove, the hardwood floors, the sunroom and the massive woods in back.

After the plumber installed a main water cutoff valve and the electrician fixed a dead outlet, we close the deal without incident and I take the proceeds to the bank. No mortgage. No debt of any kind. I can go anywhere in the world, as long as I have my sleeping bag and journal--and a friendly place to crash. Seems my life path is backward than most people who tour the world, or the country or Europe, with a knapsack and a sleeping bag while in their teens or 20s. I'm a 41-year-old hippie.

Jaime asked if I miss the house. Of course. I miss the Hydrangea bush and the Milk and Honey Lillies and that wild patch of Rose-of-Sharons growing in the semi-woods. Oh, and the giant Crepe Myrtles lining the back!! But I don't miss the mortgage or the cleaning or the deck that needs sealing yet again. Jaime said we only lived there four years, but the house means a lot to her--she was a senior in high school when we moved in. Jaime and I both hope the new owners have many years of bliss while living in the house. We sure did!