In 2013, I found my house. The way it came to be mine was the true magic. I was searching for a place to retire, a place that would tick all the boxes and help me turn a new page. I was at a crossroads, feeling fractured and discontent, trying to hold the pieces together.
At the time, the market was flooded with foreclosed homes. I had spent three years sifting through listings, hoping to find something that resonated. One night, I had a dream—of descending stairs, stepping through an alcove, and entering a dining room in a house I'd never seen. It felt significant, as if this dream was guiding me to something special.
My son’s Cub Scout master, Leon, was also a realtor with a keen eye for construction. Together, we began the hunt. When I first saw the listing for this house, it was unremarkable—stark and underwhelming. The photos showed a house trapped in time, with ‘70s chartreuse wallpaper, linoleum floors, dark wood paneling, and a kitchen with a dropped ceiling lit by ‘80s light boxes. It was daunting, yet I kept it on my radar for nine months.
Finally, Leon and I went to see it. The nearly four-acre property was overgrown, though someone had been mowing a path to the house. The house itself was a faded yellow with sky-blue trim, a large, abandoned wasp nest swaying under the eaves. The doors were broken, windows clouded with dirt, pollen, and mildew. The land had boggy patches, and a small blue pump house sat at the bottom of the hill, with an old shop perched at the top. The property was dotted with 45 towering, decaying cottonwood trees, and a broken water line added to the list of flaws. Yet, despite all this, the property exuded a calm, nurturing energy, as if it was waiting for someone to bring it back to life.
Inside, the house surprised us. The old linoleum had been replaced with laminate, the walls were freshly painted, and new carpet had been laid in four rooms. The kitchen, though soot-stained from a past fire, had modern appliances, and the cabinets, though in need of help, were usable. These were not the photos I saw n the listing. As I walked down the stairs toward the kitchen, I felt a jolt of recognition—this was the house from my dream. I stepped through the alcove into the dining room, and I knew, deep in my bones, that this was my house. It had the space where I could finally create the healing studio I had always longed for.
We decided to make an offer, only to learn that another buyer had already placed one. My heart sank; I felt I had lost something precious. Over the next few weeks, I kept checking the listing, watching it move into pending status. It didn’t feel right—it didn’t feel finished. I knew that when you set your intention and align your thoughts, you can change the outcome. Each day, I would sit quietly, envisioning the house, connecting with it and the land in my mind and heart, and repeating, “Please come back to me. Please come back to me.”
Two months later, I resumed my search, though my heart wasn’t in it. I couldn’t shake the feeling that this house was meant for me. On a whim, I checked the listing one last time—and there it was, back on the market. The previous buyer had backed out because of all the broken things about the house. But I knew that this broken house was exactly what I needed to rebuild myself, to find my way back to wholeness. And so, it became mine.
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