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Moving

 We aren't moving. Not for many years. But there is a distraction available if you cannot purchase new real estate. You can *re-make* your current house.


In the Raymond Carver story "Boxes," Carver's mother repeatedly violates her lease agreements. There is nothing wrong with any of the towns she has chosen, but she herself is unsettled. "Wherever you go, there you are." This is the subtle message of the story. Raymond has to pretend to agree whenever his mom blames the town for her ills.

My husband and I are considering new paint colors for the exterior of our home; you would think that this color question is the key to our future happiness. If we choose correctly, we will never, never have any other issues to contend with. Never. We send each other photos from Google searches. We "feed" our current house to ChatGPT, which spits out "reimagined" versions with varying color schemes. At a Buddhist shrine in Newark, I could not think, "Ah, the wonders of history and culture!" Instead, I thought, "Green and orange together--not bad. Who knew?"

On some level, I understand that I am like an ostrich with its head in the sand. I understand that I should be focused on deeper, more spiritual questions. But we missed Tot Shabbat--recently--because I wanted to see "Lee Cronin's The Mummy." (My husband wanted to see a Royals/Yankees baseball game.)

We write emails. Fast and furious. New words trip off my tongue. "Pergola." "Sage or mint?" "Mahogany."

Our eyes are slightly rabid. A favorite refrain returns. "Yes, it would mean one more check--but, really, what's one more check?" I'm not sure that either one of us is sleeping very well.
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