Ghosts In The Stairwell

A vision I have for myself this year, is to write for the cathartic sake of writing. As a human being, Range is how I process and story tell through motion, but I embody more than movement.

We had strange circumstances with purchasing our home in 2022. It was an off market sale which presented us with the rare opportunity of meeting, and spending a bit of time with the previous owners. This is the home where they raised their boys, this is the home where they took care of ailing parents, this is the home that housed 2 dogs and multiple cats that had all moved onwards to greener pastures. When the house was emptied and became ours, I felt lovingly haunted by the people, animals, objects that had previously called this space home.

I am a deeply sensitive soul, in fact, I write this with tears streaming down my face. When we painted the walls and the dreary (sorry) yellow that had previously existed vanished behind new paint strokes, I remember thanking the walls. When we tore out the existing kitchen and built new cabinets, I remember thanking the cabinets for housing the plates and bowls that had previously fed the family before us. When I scoff at the “outdatedness” of our only bathtub, I thank it for providing accessibility and support for an elderly relative of the old family.

The existing kitchen…we personally wanted more space and more light.

I pay this mortgage. I own this house. I can also pay respects to the people, the memories, who built her. It’s strange isn’t it? In your own home, can you hear the laughter, the fights, the stories of the still living ghosts who used to live there?

A few weeks ago, Ben came into my studio and simply asked me how I was doing. Totally benign. All of a sudden, the flood gates of emotion poured out of me and I told him, “I wish that I could freeze time and be in this house where I am always 32, you are always 38, and River is always 3.” Of course the logical side of me knows that time continues onwards, but I find myself grieving the speed of time. I love this home, this period of our lives, these woods. I am comfortable, safe, held here.

Right about that time, he embarked on a new home project that would turn out to be his greatest challenge yet. The stairwell. There is nothing wrong with the stairs, but as we replaced carpet with hard wood floors last year, we realized that the yellow polyurethane felt like it needed a new story. Our home was built in 2006 and let’s be honest here, it simply wasn’t the greatest time period in interior design! I watched as Ben meticulously spent hour after hour sanding away the stain, sanding away the stories, revealing a bare slate below.

The existing stairs. Photo taken on the day we moved in.

The stairs that we walked daily when River was 1, 2…they’re different. The stairs we walked when we were 31, 32 and 37, 38….they’re different. I’m not only feeling the ghosts of the previous owners, I’m feeling the ghosts of previous versions of my family. They look beautiful, I’ll show you. We have artwork of a ginormous horse that I cannot wait to hang. The color on the walls, Lime White, the same as my studio - reminds me of butter and melted vanilla icecream. We wanted this shift, we wanted a space that felt like us, but I am also paying my respects to the ghosts who walked the old version for 19 years.

Currently under construction but already feeling fresh, new…us.

For some of you, you may never understand this. For those who love antiques, part of the allure is romanticizing the stories of who owned them prior. What objects did they hold? What part of the house did they live in? Were they loved and cherished or discarded as worthless? For sensitive souls, these are the questions that linger.

Both can exist all at once. A craving for something new, while grieving what lived in the past. For now, I seek comfort in the tip taps of River’s paws, the clydesdale clomping of my wooden clogs and the smooth shuffle of Ben’s crocs. I hope that one day, years from now, a new family will hear them too.