A new place called home.

When you settle into a home, its hard to ever imagine leaving it. Everything becomes familiar; the textures and the curves of beams, the familiar smells and creaks of a floorboards. It becomes very much a part of who you are. Our home, which was painstakingly built in 1741, has told so many stories; our own and the many families that have dwelled in it before us. The love I have for my home is real because it is here that I have raised my babies, celebrated 9 birthdays, re-discovered photography and came to fully love Middlefield. When my sister in law passed away in January, I spent hours at home thinking about my life, her past, her dreams that were cut short and my own perceivable future. In these cold and somewhat dark emotional days, I realized it was time for a change. We have always lived simply. I blame not my house, but myself. Ask anyone who comes into my home, it-is-simple. We have sparse furnishings, mostly handed down. Our towels don't match. To the chagrin of my kids, we have lived without a dryer for four years. My studio lighting lives somewhat permanently in my dining room as paintings of the ancestors sit patiently on the room’s walls posing for their head shots. Interrupting myself, like the intermission of a play, I began to think that I wanted the next act to have a very different tone to it. While I have dwelled in the footsteps of the past for the last decade, this next one will jolt me forward. So I am changing my address and perhaps changing a few of my regular notions. We’ll be moving soon, only a mile away, but a world apart. The first thing I’ll do is buy some matching towels and well see how it goes from there. I look forward to a door that’s always open for friends and a place for my family to make its next step forward. 
 

Our first day living on Miller Road