You've gotta know when to hold 'em

know when to walk away, know when to run...

You never count your money
when you’re sittin’ at the table
there’ll be time enough for countin’
when the dealin’s done

Ahhh, Kenny Rogers.

These lyrics I grew up with and can still mostly remember by heart.

I suppose it’s another way of saying “don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”

I have no chickens. Yet.

I have no money to count, either. Yet.

What I have are tentative deals between us and someone who promised to give us money for our property and between us and someone we’ve promised to then give that money to in exchange for their property.

None of it is exceptionally fabulous or new (neither the one we’re selling nor the one we’re buying). It’s all, in fact, quite imperfect and flawed. But so are we. The prospective house is old, and I am charmed by the simple fact that it has a history and an unknown story.

Somehow, it seems fitting that the most we dare hope for in life is a little corner of imperfection; the kind of corner where our flaws align with the place, so that when nestling into the sofa in the low evening light with a glass of wine, with the windows outside dark and the fire slowed to a gentle rolling flame, we are at ease and can feel at peace with the world and ourselves.

Perhaps not everyone seeks this, but I am willing to bet that everyone I have had a genuine rapport with has sought at least their own version of this same thing.

My daydreams of the corners where I hope to eventually retire feature nothing grand, nothing gleamingly slick or fancy. I prefer not to spend energy on removing or worrying about fingerprints and dust. For me, the scenario involves an oversized armchair or a rocking chair, a book or a notebook and pen, soft lighting or warm sunshine, and a cosy blanket with a pillow or two. Old furniture, bright colors, and a makeshift montage of mismatched items, each appreciated for its unique appeal, for its minor history and charm.

There’s a poem my mom gave me when I was a young adult, and I have kept a printout of it of ever since because it struck a chord with me: Vagabond’s House by Don Blanding.

But . . . oh, I've thought for a long, long while
Of all the corners and all the nooks,
Of all the bookshelves and all the books,
The great big table, the deep soft chairs,
And the Chinese rug at the foot of the stairs

I have never aspired to be a vagabond, never dreamt of travelling extensively. I’ve wanted a comfortable home, good company and good food, as well as plenty of solitude and time to think, write and create. In fact, around the time I first read that poem, I was also reading everything I could by Margaret Lawrence, starting with The Diviners.

To my young and idealistic mind, this was the perfect novel. To this day, I consider very few books to be its equal, though I admit to having read much less fiction (almost none at all) in the past 10 years, and so there is much I have missed. Based on a few scenes in the later part of the book, younger me elaborated an idealized image of my future life. It’s funny-not-funny, but such is the irony of life, that what I imagined for myself was to live alone in a small cottage or cabin by the edge of a river, where I would write, and where I would perhaps take a lover if I felt like it, but with no more permanence than that with which one savours a meal. A river, a cabin, and much writing, these were my goals. I surely didn’t dare admit it to myself but I hoped that in such a setting, I would write a novel as great as The Diviners.

I’ve always been drawn to the water’s edge; reflection, movement, and an entire array of moods are represented there, and there’s some comfort in it.

Out of some vain belief that visualization can have a positive effect on outcome, I have imagined several scenarios of life on the property we have hoped to stake our future on: of walking through the broad grassy clearing cleaving the forest, of roaming the trails in the forest, and of sitting at the bank of the small river that runs at the foot of the slope below the house. It has seemed a compromise in my mind between the wife and mother-of-three I’ve become and the solitary independent woman I wanted to be. I cannot unbecome who I am (nor would I want to) but I can perhaps find a way to inject some of my younger self’s energy and aspirations into my life again.

Fragility is a difficult state. You cannot afford to abandon yourself in comfort; you cannot afford to act out. Everything is risky and uneasy. This in-between time, when our hopes and dreams rest on the whims and desires of two separate sets of people, has required an incredible effort to preserve our very delicate balance. We have dared to want it enough to go after it, while trying not to get our hopes up too much. We have hoped, and planned, and indeed are still holding out some hope, but we are both thoroughly emotionally exhausted.

Today, it seems like both ends of our balancing act have started to wobble.

Today, we learned there have been several inquiries about the place we want to buy. This is a problem because until we satisfy the conditions of our offer, which include selling our property, the seller is free to consider other offers. And today, our buyers bailed.

We’re not out of the game, but we’ve been thrown back into the chaos of uncertainty, and I’m just about done with uncertainty. My nerves are frayed. I’m ready for solid ground, for reasonably predictable outcomes.

Regardless of what happens, this period has not been without lessons. We have confirmed our requirements and we know where we’re going. It might not be the place I’ve been dreaming of, and I’m working on accepting that. There will be others. If this one falls through, I will accept that it wasn’t meant to be, and that it might even be for the better.

Wherever we find it (and we will!), our little corner of imperfection will have:

• Enough land to be self-sufficient, including for wood heating, hunting and trapping

• A water source

• Privacy — away from major roads and far from neighbours

• A house that is sound and does not require any significant renovation

• An adequate number of bedrooms