Sometimes the opening salvo via phone is "Are you the homeowner?" I always answer "Yes" rather than dive into the muddy pool that is home ownership with an outstanding mortgage balance.
Yes, I take care of the place as if it is mine a bit differently than I would take care of an apartment. Nearly every decision is my own, especially when it comes to tending to the yard.
But, in truth, the house and land is mine only as long as I fulfill mortgage terms, so "Yes, but..." is the more complete answer. Not that such a conversational turn is ever taken.
More to the point, I could suggest I am a guest in my own--nearly--home. With the understanding I have a far-reaching run of the place.
Thinking of myself as a guest under this roof or in the yard may seem odd, but it does give me pause, a sense of passing through. Of course, should I drop dead among the tomato plants, my ownership is rendered moot.
It's the passing through notion that is really on my mind. A young neighbor who spots me roughly 6 decades observed the other day that I "have lived a long life".
Well yes, and no.
The median age in the US is around 38, plus or minus a bit most likely. Okay, I've blown by that marker.
Now I am digressing--back to the passing through notion. As a layperson, not a scientist or historian, I do consider my lifespan in terms of the greater expanses of time passed, time to come.
Family members to this side of the Atlantic for well more than 300 years, Sumerian writing about 5500 years ago, formation of solar system around 4.5 billion years ago, and well let's just leap backward the roughly 14 billion years and call the universe our home.
Our home where we are just passing through. As guests.
Me? A mere 68 years in.
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