And our news is…
We’re selling our home. Packin’ up and movin’ out. Hittin’ the trail. (Abusin’ the metaphors.)
We’re beginning the end of our time in this impossibly gorgeous (and gorgeously impossible) house. But before we get into that, let me explain a little bit about where we’re going. And why. (The “how” is delightfully nebulous.)
So. I moved to Chicago in the summer of 2002- close to 18 years ago- and P.J. has been here for almost 20. More posts on that bit of incredulous mathing to follow, but suffice to say, Chicago has been the home of our hearts for a boggling amount of time. We’ve joined theatre companies and performed on stages (and in bars) and reveled in street festivals and marveled at the kind of art that breaks hearts and builds them back up. We’ve eaten pretty much everything there is to eat. (Twice.) We’ve formed friendships- some that lasted seasons, some that’ll last lifetimes- and somehow, somehow, somehow, formed the best (or at least most recent) versions of ourselves.
We raised all three of our babies here.
Chicago is our home. Chicago will always feel like home.
But, as we’ve recently discovered, “home” is less a zip code and more a spot where our family can expand and contract and nest. (And hopefully not need to quarantine again, not ever.)
When I was 22, I followed a boy out to Chicago, because he had a way more solid plan than I did, and because it seemed like a really lovely place to perform, write, teach, and immerse myself in the arts. (It was.) Later- when I met another boy- it seemed like a really lovely place to rent sunny apartments and frame exquisite menus from world-class restaurants and fix up dilapidated homes. (Hard same.)
A lot has happened since.
Fast forward to this past summer.
We embarked on our annual trek to the Atlantic, stopping in the Berkshires for a week per usual, with a quick overnight to Toronto just prior. Guys, we went bonkers in Toronto. We seriously had the best time, with walking tours and street art, incredible food and generous people.
“Can we move here?” I asked P.J.
“Sure,” he patiently told me. “Go ahead and Google home prices in the city proper.”
Turns out, we could not move there.
Ah well, I thought. Our Canadian dreams could wait. Besides, we had a fun week coming up in my hometown of Pittsfield, Massachusetts before we were to meet up with the whole Flynn fam on Cape Cod- the place where, if I were a penguin, I’d find my heart song. (Forgive the geographical impossibility of that one. I’m feeling feelings.)
The drive from Toronto to Massachusetts was easy. It didn’t hurt that it was a beautiful summer afternoon, but as we rolled down the windows once we entered the Berkshires, a wave of joyful calm washed over us. We pulled down the country lane towards my family’s house and was immediately asked by Suzy, “What’s that smell?” (Something that yields a very specific answer on our current Chicago block.)
“That’s…clover.”
“Can you touch it with your feet?”
I looked at P.J. How did our kids not know that clover fields were safe for feet?
No time to dwell on that, as we were now home and greeted by my Mom in the beautiful house that had always felt so, so good. P.J. spent the majority of that week working from the room that had been mine during college, an old servant’s quarters with a private hallway and a view of fields, forest and- just down a slight hill- a pool. The kids and I passed the time over the next few days touring our favorite museums, hanging out with some of my closest childhood friends (and their kids!) and generally spending a good deal of time airing ourselves out. (And yes, walking barefoot on clover.)
We had fun. We had so much fun, however, that it soon became apparent I was ignoring a very persistent voice in the back of my brain, the one reminding me that we’d recently (sometimes desperately) been searching for this kind of peace in our daily lives. That we’d both shaped our careers to be largely home-based.
That we’d wanted our kids to have a tree fort.
That I’d missed proximity to the Atlantic like a long-lost lover, that the East Coast held my sisters and Mom in cities and towns I adored, and that- sure, okay- my family’s homestead had been on and off the market for the prior four years.
But what could be done? It had never been time. It had never felt right.
I’m a big fan of asking for signs.
…But I’m pretty terrible at listening for and receiving them. So the morning that I was standing in the pool with the kids, watching them splash and giggle underneath the cloudless sky, I spent way too long staring at the gorgeous orange, blue, and black butterfly that landed on my chair. And the pool deck. And my arm. And the plant. And hovered in front of my face for a really, really long time.
“Aw,” I said. “Butterfly.”
The rest of the morning was spent watching my kids cannonball into the water as I worked on a laptop a safe distance away. It was so peaceful on this lane, I thought, so quiet and lovely.
I glanced behind me at the graceful colonial home snugged up against ancient trees and had a brief, wistful thought:
“I wish we could live here.”
The butterfly landed on my computer. I looked at the butterfly. I swear to God the butterfly looked back at me. I looked at the house, then back at the butterfly. My breath caught in my throat. And, for one terrifying moment, I was pretty sure I was going to throw up.
“Oh sh*t.”
I did not see this coming. How did I not see this coming?
P.J. emerged from the house and walked down the flagstone path- looking for all the world like a man with zero knowledge of the Feelings Storm into which he’s about to step.
“Why do you look like you’re going to throw up?”
“…”
“…”
“…I think…we should move here.”
“…”
“…”
“…Okay. I know. Okay.”
Quick side note:
(Five years ago, when my Dad was dying, P.J. had the constant refrain of “We should move closer. We should buy this house.” I ignored him. Because a) My Dad had repeatedly told me that moving for a dying man is a TERRIBLE plan, and b) we lived in Chicago. In the years since, P.J. has gently/not-so-gently offered up the suggestion of, you know, buying the family’s home that everyone already loves and which would be great for our entire family, but whatever. Not the right time? Cool. Cool.)
We spent some time talking to my Mom, my sisters, and the butterfly about this potential new plan. (My Mom was very surprised- despite the fact that she’d been wanting one of us to buy the home for forever and a day- and most likely having a great deal to do with the fact that there was a current offer in on her home- but MAYBE we’re not all on the same page at the same time and that’s okay and that’s my point.)
So.
We agreed to keep talking. Keep deciding.
But the closer I got to deciding for real real, the weepier I got. And I definitely threw up a few times.
(Turns out, this might just be how I process gigantic things? Definitely puked before I moved to Chicago, absolutely puked before my wedding, and had a major puke-fest the night before I had Nora. That last one might’ve just been part of a rough pregnancy, but figured it was worth including.)
We officially started down the path of buying the Massachusetts home from my mother. (And she officially started down the path of getting her own super-sweet apartment nearby, that I’ve heard takes grandkids on a near-nightly basis.)
Once the decision was truly made, I spent the next few months being pulled between grief and excitement, anticipation and anxiety, goodbyes I had yet to make and hellos I had yet to announce.
A good friend laid it out really well for me as I angsted left and right: I didn’t need to look at the cross-country move as being pushed away from Chicago, that I could reframe it as being pulled to our next step. This helped. This made it feel like less of a break-up with the city we love- Chicago, you’ve done nothing wrong!– and more like an incredible opportunity for our fam’s hearts and brains and lungs and bare feet.
It became very real…
…The night we finally sat the kids down to tell them about our fam’s upcoming gigantic adventure. We expected feelings, but we weren’t sure which feelings; nevertheless, we prepared to make space for them all.
“Guys,” we told them. “We have exciting news.”
Suzy jumped up and gleefully applauded.
Nora snapped at her, “You don’t even know what the news is.”
Suzy was undeterred. “I love exciting news.”
“Okay,” I continued. “Do you know how much you love Mim’s home in Pittsfield? That’s going to be our family’s new home, starting next summer!”
Silence.
All three jumped up and shrieked in joy. JOY. They babbled about the pool and the bedrooms they were going to choose and the friends they knew there and proximity to their Boston cousins and, oh my gosh, were the cats going to come? There was a moment’s pause, a space for a breath, really.
Then- all at once- Suzy began to dance and sing, Nora slowly sunk to the ground and covered her face with her hands, and Jasper grabbed his backpack.
Nora teared up and said she was sorry she was bringing the room down, but she had questions.
Suzy started to cry because she was afraid her happiness was making Nora feel bad about her not-happiness.
Jasper wept angrily upon learning that we wouldn’t be packing his backpack for the move for months.
(P.J. and I quietly poured each other a bourbon and settled in for an evening of Feelings Acknowledgment.)
And now what?
I generally pride myself on my ability to write out what’s happening in our lives. To describe the realities (and surrealities) of each weird, gorgeous, sad, scary, boring milestone. But I can’t put into words yet what it feels like to leave our home on Troy Street.
We love this home.
This home broke us.
This home made us broke.
I wrote a book about how much we love this home that broke us.
But, quite truthfully, the only way I’d ever be able to leave this house that my Dad fixed and rebuilt and helped turn into a home…would be to move into the house that my Dad fixed and rebuilt and helped turn into the home he loved best.
And I know he’s shaking his head with a laugh. I know he’s proud of us. I hope he understands why we stayed here so long.
I hope he does.
(And I’m pretty much counting on him visiting me in a dream real, real soon to tell me where the money’s buried. What. Isn’t that how dream visitations work?)
So, Massachusetts: I’ll see you this summer. (Round up your seafood and save me a seat at the Fourth of July parade!)
So, Chicagoland: See you ’til summer. (Round up your everything and let’s do a really, really good job of sheltering in place so we can safely high-five before then.)
And we’ll be back. Of course we’ll be back. This town is too vital to us to not be part of our lives, regardless of where we park our minivan. If recent events have shown us anything, it’s that our community shows up and stays in our faces- and on our FaceTimes- regardless of anything happening outside. (There’s nothing happening outside.)
This is Part One of our Chicago goodbye. But don’t worry, I’m not nearly done writing about the magical Money Pit we call home.
What, you think I’d leave you hanging on the inspection process for this cavern of wonders?
Never.
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