Homeless-0-47: Shock and Aaaah

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We became homeless a month ago, when the landlords called from The Hague to say that they were selling the house. Reluctantly. We, in turn, reluctantly accepted the news. We were in shock, I’m surprised we could even muster a decent reluctance. But we did.

The law says that after five years renting out what was once a primary residence, the status of a property shifts from owner-occupied to commercial holding, and valued at the current fair market price for capital gains taxes. Some government employees stationed overseas get a pass. Our landlords don’t, because they’re ex-pats for a private company.

Unfortunate.

Thirty days later, we’re still in shock. We’ve been out looking for another home-away-from-home, and came close to finding one a couple of times, but the search feels half-hearted and disheartening. Rental property runs from great to terrible, and this place has been great. It came into our lives when we were nearing the depth of our faith that we could ever find anyplace to live, and losing it casts us back out into an even more uncertain sea. Hundreds of thousands have fled here during the recession, and nobody’s been building anything for anybody, so the market’s stunningly tight.

Amy keeps reminding me to feel the feeling I’m looking for and I might attract a place that exudes that feeling. Aaaaah! I know, every place I’ve ever lived, ever thrived, was a completely unknown space before I stumbled upon it. Or it stumbled upon me. And I know that to be true. I still haven’t felt very motivated to feel much of anything. Still shocky.

We inhabit the space between the shock and the aaah, certain of nothing. Yesterday, as we trudged back to our now temporary quarters, I mentioned that this experience must be an exercise in faith. We’d just left a “charming Colonial” which more closely resembled a stable on the inside. Outside, it was situated on a busy arterial and the overgrown yard screamed ‘drainage problems,’ though the street litter might have been worth something as recycling.

I wonder if we’re trying to drag too much of our past into the future with us. What would be so terrible about a tiny brick row house, besides the cavern-like ambience designed to encourage year-round seasonal affective disorder? Couldn’t that be an adventure, too?

We’re presented with a Hobson’s Choice where we can have anything we want as long as we choose from the thoroughly picked over buffet. The Jello’s gone runny.

We are visualizing with our nervous systems now, remembering how it feels to find home. It’s a tricky business when the dominant feeling whimpers homeless.

©2012 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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