Changes

 It's not the end of the world, I guess.  Some days it feels like it.  After 10 years of hard work and many realized dreams, I must sell my B & B.  

I'm not ready.  There are half finished projects clamouring for attention, snagging my eye at every blink... the greenhouse, ongoing landscaping, upgrading the kitchen, egress in the attic suite.....  and dreams for the future littering the floor in every room.  This was supposed to be my legacy - a gorgeous and successful bed and breakfast, famous for its hospitality, food, and early 20th century charm.  

But, as they say, all things come to an end.  It has been a good run, and it makes my heart hurt to lose my gracious Georgian style domicile.  Thanks a whole heap, COVID 19.  With travel disallowed, no one is needing overnight stays on their journey.  At one point early in 2019 I was down to one long-term stay.  The house has never been empty since I began this adventure, but these past 2 years have been lean ones.  Music instruction income also all but disappeared.  If not for a part time job as administrator for the local arts centre, I'd have been hungry and homeless for a year already.  

So, the changes.  The finance company has refused my request for just one more deferral on my weekly mortgage payments. The fertilizer has hit the ventilator.  The house must be sold.  

My realtor, the mum of 2 former violin students, has begun to send me little lists of things I need to have in place to ready the place to sell as a turnkey business operation. I'm working on yearly financial statements - not my favourite way to pass the time.  I was at it for for 4 hours last night, after the day job. Ten years' collection of local art, old linens, glassware, furniture and heritage garden plantings will stay, hopefully for someone who wants to continue the old girl's career as a heritage B & B. There's a magnificent solid walnut dining suite, with hutch and sideboard, that was purchased when the house was built. I'm loath to part with that.  This magnificent dining set is the heart of the house.  You don't rip out someone's heart.  If I can't sell the place with contents, I've promised it to my eldest son, who's always loved working with wood, and appreciates fine craftsmanship.  There's also a hundred year old piano, that, if at all possible, will come with me.... wherever I go.  No one wants these old instruments - they're desperately heavy and hard to move.  It breaks my heart to think of it disassembled to make something cute or trendy, or left somewhere to die a dissonant, agonizing death.  And the assortment of stringed instruments and shelves filled with sheet music and books.... what's in their future?

I've begun to collect things that are personal, meaningful, that I'd like to either pass on to someone who cares for them, or take with me (again, wherever I go from here) I'll store them in the studio and garden shed.  (which must both be emptied of anything superfluous first) What will happen to my books?  My sewing equipment and fabric stash? Will I be going to somewhere they can live? So much depends on the sale of the house.  If I get what I'd like for it, purchase of a smaller home, mortgage free will be an option.  If the old girl doesn't sell and is repossessed, all bets are off.  I could be homeless this time next year.  

These are interesting times.... in the worst meaning of the phrase.  But I'll find my way through somehow. I'm resilient like that.   Meanwhile, my heart hurts, and often my head joins the sad song. Writing becomes therapy.  I have made a commitment to write daily, to alleviate anxiety, and to flex my authorial muscles for possible future use.   A laptop doesn't take up much space, and can go almost anywhere. Regardless of the final outcome, writing is something I can continue, and it's good for me.  

I'll write a new chapter in this life of adventures, upheaval and blessings. It's not the end of the world.