Next week E travels to the U.S. on business and while his trip is a short one, he’s planning on swinging out to see our new house. Lucky him.

We have an address, we have a phone number, we have an electric bill, we have an alarm system, and we have a big honking mortgage payment on the first of each month, but right now we're still thinking in terms of having a house, not having a home.

We purchased this house after much debate during our whirlwind tour of the U.S. in July. We closed on the loan at the end of August, and it just felt surreal, like we’d entered into an arranged marriage with someone we’d only met once.

We’d decided to buy a house over the summer because the market was favorable for buyers and because waiting to shop for a house in the winter would have meant we’d have to finance a second trip to the U.S., arrange care for our kids in Belgium, and face a diminished selection of homes in the dead of winter in the U.S. Beyond the practical considerations, we just wanted to finalize the decision of where we’d be living so we could move onto dealing with the other major issues needing our attention.

We all loved the house. It just felt like home to us when we went to see it, and we were entranced because it’s nestled in woods and backs up to a historic park where we can walk, run, and ride bicycles. We get all the benefit of being surrounded by a huge tract of land without the cost or responsibility.

When we purchased the house, the owners were still living there, and we enjoyed getting to know them a bit. The house was furnished with their lovely antiques and just felt so homey. I took dozens of photos of the interior, every closet, cabinet, room, corner, window, etc. I wanted to be able to explore it visually after we left and consider how we might set it up. After settlement, our agent sent us some additional photos of the empty house—and it looked so lonely.

Some days I click through all the photos and try to imagine the new life we’ll be starting soon. I make mental notes like “Get an antique mirror for over the mantel,” and “a big round oak table with leather chairs would be perfect in the sitting room.” I debate over the look of the living room because I have a cranberry red sofa and big tapestry wing chairs featuring various shades of green and khaki that I don’t think will work with the deep raspberry walls and gray wainscoting. I love those walls. I love my furniture. I’m not sure they can live together.

On a recent trip to Flanders, E bought a Belgian tapestry to hang in a specific spot in the house where the former owners also hung a Belgian tapestry. He chose the Tree of Life design by William Morris, a tribute to the trees surrounding the house. I like to imagine it on the wall above the stairwell.

The kitchen has richly colored knotty pine cabinets and custom made tiles that speak to my soul. Unfortunately, it’s pretty small as kitchens go. I count the drawers and cabinets and wonder what will fit in there. I see myself putting on the kettle and making a cup of tea and leaning into the window above the sink to watch the squirrels rob the birdfeeders.

I try to imagine how the light will move through the rooms, which ones will catch the morning sun, which will glow in the late afternoon. Which window will frame the moon for me? How will the leaves drift into piles on the deck? Where will we stand to watch the snow fall? Where will we set up the Christmas tree? Which flowers will bloom first in spring?

Taking these mental trips through the house helps ease the sadness I’m starting to feel, caught between my current life in Belgium and my future life in the States. All the changes associated with the move are daunting, and yet despite my unease, I know how lucky I am to be getting a chance to make a fresh start in our house in the woods.

October 11, 2007