A little bit gypsy

I have to say, I hate having a restless soul. To the core of my being, it makes me insane. I have no reason to be like this -- my parents still live in the same house they've always lived in for my entire life. And I love love love that about them -- the continuity of it, the way friends from 30 years ago can ask about my parents and I say: They're the same! Because they are. Although a few years ago my dad went on a wild streak and instead of the usual white paint for the interior walls, he went with antique instead. When I was in high school, I begged (read that as WHINED) until he let me paint ONE wall of my bedroom blue. It returned to white pretty soon after I graduated. So when I say he took a big step to beige, I'm not kidding. But it's great because that's who he is, and I adore him to pieces for it.  (In an off-topic yet related note, I've been talking (read that as whining) to Rick about painting our bedroom... ya guessed it... blue. But I digress...) But my parents are the people I WANT to be, but I'm just not. This isn't the first time I've talked about them and their house that built me and a lot of my friends -- I have an entire post on my old blog (back when I was going to write) here.

I don't have that at all. This last May (2012), Rick and I hit our three year anniversary in this house. In a mere two months, August, I will have officially lived here in this house more than any other house in the last 22 years since I left my parents'.Three years, three months is the longest I've lived in a single house. By the time my daughter Shandie turned 15, we had moved 12 times, and that doesn't include two brief times at my parents between moves, nor that does that include her going to college or moving into the house we're now in, OR the house she now lives in.  Looking back, I really don't know why, aside from this deep, deep discontentment that settled over me looking for my own "home". Well, that's not entirely true. Of course some of the moves were for jobs or money issues back in the day, but still... This is the first time I've lived in a house that feels like "home". And it's about to get a make-over and rebalancing once Carly heads to college and Cooper and Sydney go to separate rooms.

But that weird sense of "change" still clings to me. Not too long ago I posted about rearranging the gardens and moving plants. Even now, I tell Rick how next year I'll be doing things differently than this year, even in the backdoor garden that turned out the best. I STILL find things I want to change.

And then, there's another issue that makes Rick wonder why he married me (one of many, I assure you!) I don't horde, as he likes to claim, but I cannot rid myself of perfectly good things just because WE don't need it anymore or the kids have outgrown it or I've shrunk out of it. If I can hold up something and see it in a new light, I hang onto it.

Having three daughters, trust me when I say upcycling has been a part of our lives before it was popular. Anyone who grew up with hand-me-downs has lived this. Upcycling just sounds better, doesn't it? Like "pre-owned cars" instead of "used" cars. Same thing, prettier name. So on top of Sanders In Stitches, I've held onto a ton of things for the other side of the stuff I want to do, which I call T.O.S. TOS stands for "the other side" -- I came up with this name for various reasons, originating with the ideas of "recycling" and "green" and then that led to the phrase "the grass is always greener on THE OTHER SIDE", but also it's the other side of the original purpose of the item, and then also it's the other side of Sanders In Stitches. And I like that TOS is so near to toss, which I refuse to do with all of these items in which I can still see promise.

A long, long time ago, why before I found my birth mother, Beverlee, friends used to try to guess my genealogy. The olive skin, the blue eyes, dark hair, blah blah blah. One online friend who lived in the Middle East told me I looked "gypsy". I didn't know that was a "nationality" like Irish or English or Indian, etc. I just thought it was a lifestyle. He said: It's both, and you look it and you live it.

Well that was dead on.

And it's nothing new to those who really know me to know I've always wanted a gypsy wagon. Rick and I talk about getting something like an Airstream to sell my stuff out of, especially at craft shows. Just drive it up and it's good to go -- no unloading or arranging, etc. But what I REALLY want is a gypsy wagon. I mean, don't get me wrong: I'd love an Airstream that I could deck out and decorate in my weird little way, and then I could use the gypsy wagon in the garden... and don't think I wouldn't.

Tell me if you saw that at a craft show or flea market, you wouldn't WANT to go in there? Tell me if you saw that in my back yard, you wouldn't want to explore it!

So I guess that's my problem: gypsy blood. It makes me restless. It makes me move and rearrange and change, even if there's no REASON or NEED for it. It makes me want to take something old and discarded and give it new life. 

I love the roots my parents gave me, I love the wings to fly my God gave me, and I love Rick who gives me and my kids those roots but at the same, even while shaking his head in utter and complete disbelief, he lets me FLY. 

Now if only I could get off the ground and really soar. Baby steps, Bren. Baby steps.