Ilze Berzins

After any trauma (realtor-induced)(see category: travel) I go back to my first loves. There are many. Ballet was my first passion but I grew too tall. That was before the days of Karen Kain and other long-limbed dancers. In my days you had to be petite– which I never was.

Then painting.

And only much much later, writing.

“Put all this stuff away,” realtor Max instructed me. He meant my paintings, my family photos, my books. I felt stripped naked. Never mind. A STAGER would tell me what to replace my treasures with. I can roll up my Persian and rent nice furniture.  

I still feel queasy about the whole misadventure. My husband feels totally washed out, demoralized. But see, that’s the point: Realtors make you feel so unworthy that you’re glad to grab at anything to restore a bit of your humanity.

“They’re not coming back,” I tell my husband. “I won’t let them in the house.”

Still, my dream house on the hill is up for sale. By us. No intermediaries. Take us as you find us.


2 Responses to “My Bluebird of Happiness”

  1. ilzeberzins writes:

    Now I remember what Gertrude Stein once said: When the outside becomes the inside there is no more inside. I’m sure I have misquoted her. But when we allow our homes to be treated like ‘meat on a slab'(to quote Realtor Bob Whatzit)we dehumanize ourselves. For what?
    Because we know no better?

  2. butterfly writes:

    I bought a house before selling the house i was living in. That was scary.
    The realtor was ok, but the only offer i ever got was luckily the one i was able to take, though lower than hoped..not an easy process to go through…

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