2x4s & Asbestos
I have never really felt like a physical house is a home.
Carrie and I met in 2005, married in 2007, and have moved A LOT since then. Not too many years after getting married, we traveled the country for nine months in our Subaru Outback (the quintessential Colorado car).
Prior to meeting Carrie, I moved a lot. Also, before moving out of my parent’s house, I never really felt at home. Growing up, our family vacationed a lot, and for a few years, we lived between a house and a cabin (where my teen-year home ended up being built)—often living parts of the day in our house and cabin in the same day. Many days were spent in an RV camping not far from the cabin. A few years after we moved into my parents’ dream home “up on the mountain,” my mom had a heart attack. She had quite a long recovery that required me to work to help cover bills.
I’m not (and maybe) certain this unstable house-is-home situation is the reason I have a hard time connecting “a home” with a house, but I have had a hard time feeling like I have a home in any house my whole life.
At the beginning of 2022, Carrie and I moved our two little boys (now seven and nine years old) to Nashville, TN from Grand Junction, Colorado; we found a house we felt could be home for a little bit (whatever “a little bit” means).
A few days ago, I spoke with some surveyors that were “from the city.” They had been there at least two times before I spoke to them. I called the city to confirm their mission, and the city confirmed they were, in fact, not from the city. To make sure the “surveyors” weren’t a security risk, I called our property manager and found out the surveyors were from our landlord’s company.
The company we rent from buys some houses to rent and some houses to tear down for newer, nicer construction. When we were planning to rent our Nashville house, I confirmed they weren’t planning to tear this house down for a new build anytime soon. Needless to say (that’s why I’m saying it), the surveyors made me question the landlord’s near-term intentions.
For financial and home-flexibility reasons, we rent. This is on purpose (for now). That said, as we’ve rented in the past, we’ve never felt the “we might tear your house down and have you leave” possibility. This has made me question a few things about my philosophy.
Do I build the studio out fully before confirming their intentions? Do I organize my tools in the garage, or do I start to plan a move again? Do I have to leave tomorrow? What does living in any space even mean (owned or rented)?
If possible, we would like to stay in this house for a few years. What if we can’t? What if we can? If our lease is up next year, why does that change anything about today? Can I be happy with how happy I am in the house I’m in now regardless of its timeline?
Of course, I want to say, “yes!” What does “yes!” take?
I’m realizing how healthy being “possibly nomadic” is for me. All of the things I’ve identified to hold me down emotionally are connected to THINGS that are hard to move. In the past, I’ve built beautiful garage spaces on the walls of houses with all the tools I need to do anything. And then I moved. And then… I built a beautiful garage space on the walls that made me ready with all the tools I need. And then I moved. And then I moved. And then I moved.
I’m realizing the tools I love need to be malleable and ready to move: and this makes long-term housing more peaceful regardless of where I live. I feel like living in a space for MANY years with malleability in mind will make me happier. If my creative space is ready to move and doesn’t have to, it’s better than a well-built space that isn’t ready for relocation at the cost of reduced creativity.
My current strategy with all things studio, all things tools, and all other things is to make moving easy. For the most part, living this way makes living anywhere easier; long-term or not. I don’t want moving to be stressful anytime. Things are just things.
I hate cliches. Also, home might actually be where the heart is and not made of two-by-fours and asbestos.