The Nesting Instinct

It’s been quiet here on the blog lately, because I had to move out of my house. I closed the sale yesterday and filed the last paperwork this morning. I’m emotionally attached to this house – I did most of the work on it myself – and I’m pretty depressed about losing it. So this post is a completely self-indulgent before-and-after farewell to my house. I’ll be back on line with more science & art over the next few days.

Even though I chose to sell by deciding to quit my job and move out of the area, I still feel like the entire process was out of my control – not least because I moved out of a three-story house with two-car garage into . . . my car. (And a small storage unit). I went from homeowner to homeless yesterday. Not exactly the type of change I thought I’d be making at 30. According to the Holmes/Rahe life event scale, moving is only slightly more stressful than a vacation, but I don’t buy that for a minute. Moving is awful.

The main problem is, I have too much stuff. As an artist and biologist, I’m a hoarder twice over. If I mapped a distribution of my possessions (based on volume, not weight), it would be at least half books (about 50% science, 25% art) and at least one quarter art supplies (LOTS of paper, frames, stamps, paints, random found objects). I’m anxious over the prospect of lacking easy access to these things – which is silly, because I can be creative with a simple kit of watercolors. At least I should. But I feel like part of my brain is stored externally in my library of reference materials, tools, and inspirational objects.

On the other hand, my nesting instinct sucked most of my creative energy for the past two years. It’s much easier to paint a room than to paint a photorealistic insect. It’s also pretty darn cathartic to knock holes through walls, knowing they’re your walls, so you can fix them or not as you like. It obviates some of the need for artistic therapy. I hope that maybe, now that I’m out of the house, I’ll be able to rechannel my creativity toward art.

Whenever I get too self-indulgently whiny about losing my house, I read a fabulous sonnet, composed for me by my friend Libby. It goes in part:

Farewell, Oh house! I leave thee better far
Than when I found thee, though I had not done.
I had not masked each blemish, blot and scar
With paint, nor yet set down my caulking gun . . .

Her poem captures all the self-indulgent drama that is home renovation (it’s really about creating a smashingly impressive nest and showing it off) along with the genuine emotional investment (so I talked to my house. Using archaic diction. So what?)

The absurdity of the whole process is that you are never done. The only way to be done with an old house is to sell it and let someone else take over, caulking gun in hand. And so I did. I wish them luck, and I hope they love the house as much as I did.

Before/After