Love is a verb

Like any older house that has had multiple owners, there are things about my home that just don’t make sense. Why are there bricks buried the in the backyard? What does this non-functional light switch go to? Why did they put that there and this here and do this that way? These idiosyncrasies are at times frustrating (to say the least) and I forget to notice the things about the house that I love.

Golden afternoon

“Golden Afternoon”
watercolor on paper

But in the afternoon the yard turns golden and the shade from old hardwoods make it 10 degrees cooler than the actual temperature and I’m reminded that loving a house is just like loving anyone or anything else. Love is a verb. Once I stop complaining and start repairing, enjoying, and tending I fall in love all over again.

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