They say life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.
And like you, our family knows a little something about other plans.
In early December 2020, we moved out of our North Minneapolis house, believing we’d be humping boxes into our new home in Fridley by February’s end. Our purchase agreement said as much—and so did our New Year’s card. And we all know grand pronouncements in holiday cards are gospel.
But here we are in an aging 2021 and still not in our new house. It takes time for someone to finish a gutted dwelling we’re learning, so we dangle in the gap between two parts of our lives: the old house past and the new house future. And those parts were supposed to almost touch. Instead, our three-month dalliance as renters in Lauderdale has matured into a seven-month housing relationship, and I’m stunned.
Who knew we’d spend numerous seasons in the in-between? Not us, say our drawers of scant kitchen utensils and bins of limited clothing items. We haven’t seen a bed frame in months; we threw mattresses on the floor for our interim living. The TVs stayed in storage too. Why bother setting one up? We’d be gone soon enough.
While I squirm at the passage of time, life strolls by our windows—and it’s a peaceful one. I haven’t heard a gunshot since our last night in the old place. The freeway buzzes in the distance, telling me we’re still in the city, but I forget because it feels like small-town life, with rabbits—and a deer once—dotting the landscape.
Charming houses, vibrant gardens, and tranquil nights surround us. Passers-by smile like they know us. Our temporary neighbors wave at us, and I remember I used to be a neighborhood lady, interested in connections. But what about here? What about today in this unplanned chasm? The time is too short to forge friendships. We’ll be gone soon enough.
Our girls, caught in the pause with us, observe much. Each day, the red golden retriever next door loves his human, and even off-leash in the unfenced yard the dog obeys, joy wagging his body while his man lobs him a ball.
“Rosco’s out with his dad again,” Flicka says, eyeing the happenings on the grass over there. We don’t know the dog’s real name—or his owner’s—so we pretend.
“Do we even know Rosco’s a boy?” I say in passing.
“Just a guess.”
With a quick glance, divided attention, and a half-heart, I witness the bond between animal and owner. It’s sweet, but the thought trails off. We’ll be gone soon enough.
I sit cross-legged in my favorite chair in the living room, sipping coffee, my back toward the view of the neighbor’s yard. The window near me is cracked open several inches to give Dicka’s orchid a fresh breeze, and it lets in sounds too. I hear swishing.
With a long-handled Chuckit, Rosco’s dad scoops a tennis ball out of the bushes by our window. The dog vibrates in expectancy, his tail thwacking the air. The man chuckles. A pain flits through me, and in that second I know the truth: I packed up most of my personality in a box months ago, and it’s lost somewhere in the storage unit, along with the stuff we own that doesn’t matter.
But I can get it back.
I ditch my coffee cup and venture out. Rosco’s dad acknowledges me with a raised hand. I can tell his life is always poised for a friendly chat. I say I’m sorry it’s taken more than seven months to meet him. See, we didn’t think we’d be here this long, I explain. Minutes later, I return to our rental with new information (the dog’s name is Mulligan or “Mully”) and an invitation to the next meal the man (his name is Jeff) grills out with his family.
On this side of eternity, we can’t know what goes away and what lasts, so what if we take ourselves out of the boxes and do life anyway? I’m done with waiting. From here on out, I plan to imagine today is the only day, no dangly voids or lagging spaces to stall me.
After all, we’ll be gone soon enough.
*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.