OUTSIDE, LOOKING IN

My parents raised me to be humble. Selective. And, discreet. If things were going well, we didn't need to brag. And if they weren't, it was nobody's business but ours.

I remember as a kid asking why, since my parents are pretty religious, we didn't go to church on Sundays. My mother always replied, "Church is for the neighbors to know you believe in God. We pray, so God knows we do." It made perfect sense at the time. (Though I always suspected that sending me to catholic school for 13 years was a bit of insurance on their part.)

Our way of life has always been just my style. Modest. Simple to understand. Easy to follow. Until, of course, I started Meandering.

Over the last couple of weeks, I've struggled with deciding the events in my life that would make appropriate posts, and those that, as a Varela, undoubtedly would not. Frustrations with friends and family. Disagreements at home. Struggles at work and at school.

I'll let you guess from the number of recent posts where I landed in most—nay, ALL—cases.

Since we broke ground on May 1, the big hole has been a physical manifestation of the struggle between my public and private self. Every eye in the village trained squarely on the doings at 300 Cochran Road. Every wheel barrow of cement, every 2x4, a glimpse behind the curtain that is our life.

"You know those people walking their dogs or out for a run?" asked a woman that is also in the process of building a house in town. "You know they all sneak in at night to check the place out, right?" I had suspected, but I'd hoped it wasn't true.

So for three months, I've felt out of control and totally exposed.

But then today, things felt different. The siding is nearly done and painting is well under way.  All of the windows are installed, and—best of all—the doors in.

As I walked into what will soon be our mudroom, the house, behind closed doors, was warm and quiet. For the first time since this whole adventure started, the place really felt like home. And while I know, the super curious will still find themselves trying to peer in, I'll keep telling myself that from here on out, whatever happens inside is nobody's business but ours.

The big house

takes shape

with the help of friends.

STATUS UPDATE

Last week, I asked a friend if it would be OK for me to share a link to his blog with another friend. He said, yes, of course, the more readers, the better. At first, this struck me as an odd concept since I'd always seen The Long Meander as a way of putting my own thoughts and feelings down on "paper". An exercise for me more than for others. This despite the fact that I regularly find myself obsessing over my stats page. How many readers have I had today? What's my best-read post? (It's a tie between Brass Tacks and Gifts... Two of my earliest posts. Should I be worried???) It was when I started to consider that by posting really late at night my links were being buried in people's newsfeeds in the morning, thus greatly reducing my readership, that I realized maybe he was on to something.

Of course with all of the social media platforms out there today, I sometimes find myself trying to decide which would be most appropriate for the particular item I feel like sharing at any given moment. In the spirit of relevant, valuable content, I hesitate to blog about something that might be more appropriate for, say, a Facebook status update, or even a Tweet. But, here I am, a whole week since my last post (an eerily foreshadowing post, am I right?????) with a million little things I want to share with my readers. Whoever you may be. Here, tonight, I share but one.

Home is wherever you are.

Within the span of 6 hours yesterday, I found myself in three different cities, all of which I can honestly call home. I left Vermont in tears. Missing my husband and my young son, who I was leaving for the first time ever, before I even got out of the car at the airport. Fifty-seven minutes after take off from BTV, I landed at Laguardia, the airport I could throw a rock at from my awesome, old three bedroom, one-and-a-half bath apartment in Astoria way back in the day. The airport at which the traffic control tower windows were now covered with signs that read, on one side: CHAMPIONS; on the other: GIANTS. It was so wonderful to be home in NY. The city I love so much. The city Nicci brought me back to so vividly in her own post earlier in the week.

The visit was short-lived, as not 30 minutes later, I boarded my next flight. This time to DCA.

Just liked we'd known each other forever, the neighbor we'd shared for only 7 short months came to pick me up from the airport. When I walked into her house, her son Charlie gave me the biggest hug I think I've ever gotten from ANYONE and said, "HUDDY!?" It was at the same time heartbreaking and heartwarming. I was home again. Again.

Kim and Tori, my DC family, joined me for dinner at one of my favorite restaurants on 8th Street. We laughed and gossiped about the silliest, most wonderful things. It was perfect.

Tomorrow at 3:10, I'll once again get on a plane. This time, a direct flight back to my other home. Hopefully I'll make it back in time to join my two Valentines for a nice dinner, followed by an epic round of bedtime stories.

When I got home from a business dinner tonight, I had an email from a friend, complaining that I hadnt posted to my blog in a while. It was my neighbor, Kim. I peeked out the window to see if they were still up, but alas. They were probably upstairs having storytime of their own.

I am honored and thrilled that just four short days from now, those same neighbors that welcomed us into their home, knowing full well we planned to abandon them eventually, will be getting on a plane themselves to visit us in Vermont for the long holiday weekend.

Hurry home, Kim, Paul, and Charlie! We can't wait to have you.