I don’t want to own a house for a long time. Molly does.
The last time we talked about this, it was a beautiful day. A bright, chilly, damp Sunday. We were walking along the canal, talking. On that walk, she said something that has lodged in my mind.
I said I might consider buying a house when I’m forty. It was just an arbitrary date. She paused and said something like this:
“I don’t want to get to forty and have nothing to show for it.”
As so often happens, I knew what I wanted to say in response, but I couldn’t articulate it very well. I can now.
“Nothing to show for it?”
Who cares if you’re old and don’t have a house?
A house or a car or any other possession isn’t evidence of anything. They’re just meaningless things we use to try and express something about ourselves to others.
But if you’re old and without any of those things, do you know what you will have? You’ll have memories. You’ll have done things, been on adventures and spent time with people you love. You’ll have lived a life, with all it’s ups, downs, twists and turns.
In my eyes, that’s something far more valuable to own when you’re old. A life filled with love and joy. Triumphs over adversity. A life filled with mistakes and failures and heartache.
A life well lived. That’s worth more than any possession