Where does conation live?
Conation is within you. It’s not just some knee jerk reaction. Or effort that requires elbow grease. Or thing that’s isolated in your guts. It oozes out of you and bursts forth from every pore. It’s probably in your head. Your brain, specifically. That’s where scientists logically place it, because how else could it inhabit every single thing that you do?
Where do you see it?
I see it in everything I do. It’s like my shadow, yet it precedes me, and roots me as well as trails me.
I especially see it where I live.
- It’s in the energy of the colors I put on the walls (the more intensity the more it sparks my creativity).
- It’s in where I put things (neatly, when I’m under stress; all over the place when I’m in my groove).
- It’s in the number of projects I have out or stuffed in closets (if you can’t seen ’em, I’m in-between ’em).
- It’s in how healthy my plants look (their wellness shows I’m getting down time)).
- It’s in the degree of formality with which I set the table (the more of that the less of me).
- It’s in the compromises I make with my husband (I can’t reach where he put the spices).
- It’s in the whimsy all around me (don’t expect me to explain).
So how do you move you from a place that is/was you? How do you leave a home that you created, that you made perfect for your conative needs, that brought you and your spouse joy? How do you leave it without leaving a part of you behind? How do you move on?
The house I’m putting behind me is the one that helped us create a nurturing environment for a blended family. It’s the nest into which I brought my newborn grandchildren. Its bedrooms housed their hundreds of sleepovers and many session of Camp Kolbe. Its Conasium(tm), which I was compelled to build, has a 3/4 size stage, art corner, technology oozing out of the walls, and natural light from all directions, including overhead. It has the pond I personally lined with cement and the swiming pool with the linear waterfall I made so kids could swim thru it- and they called their ‘carwash’; and a wood burning oven for individually designed over-the-top pizza creations, and the tree house my son-in-law built around the palm tree because it needed to be left it free to sway.
When I see potential buyers look at all the gardens I created and say “Looks like too much work,” and just look, not skip around the soft surface “race track” in the grandkids play ground, I realize they just don’t get it. It’s not built to their MO. It doesn’t fit how they act, react and interact in their lives.
How can I get past the past of this place I created? This place that housed my conative spirit for 18 years?
It didn’t help to think so carefully about what to do with each and everything little thing and hope family and friends would want to take this and that. It didn’t matter that I love where I now live, and haven’t had a moment of regret or sadness about the decision to move on.
It took getting conative — taking action — about leaving that house before I actually moved my conative self completely out it.
Yesterday I found myself with a paint brush in hand, personally painting over the colors I had so carefully chosen. I personally took down the large magnetized white board where grandkids had posted the names of their plays and roles they played (and sometimes used the wrong kind of markers, making it messy to others’ minds). I personally chose the shade of off-white for the carpeting and walls in all the bedrooms. I personally packed up the last of the whimsy.
Now the bones of the wonderfully designed house show through. It’s ready to house someone else’s conative creativity. Mine has moved on.