I wouldn’t exactly say I’m superstitious, but I tend to like a little cosmic nudge when it comes to making big decisions. After 23 years in New York City, I was up for a life-changing one. I started feeling a yearning; for what, I wasn’t quite sure. I was getting over a break-up and had recently been downsized from my job, and if those weren’t signs to make a change, I didn’t know what would be. I decided to move to Ulster County, the place where I’d happily rented summer homes for many years. Time to trade in over-priced dinners, rides in sardine-like subway cars, and the noise and expense of cramped city apartment living for what I hoped would be a slower, quieter pace surrounded by nature and new friends. But first, I had to find a place to live.

My friend Janet noticed a house with a “for sale” sign near hers. “If this had been for sale when we were looking,” she said, “I’d have been all over it.”

It was a sweet old farmhouse that stood by itself facing a meadow. My soon-to-be new realtor, Curt, got to the house before I did. A tall, lean man with close-cropped hair, he walked down the front path to greet me, like a new live-in lover might.

The house was a bit rough but had a clean simplicity: wide-board floors, a large, sunny kitchen with a thick wooden countertop, and open shelving for dishes. I had a vision of my new friends sitting at my farmhouse table, eating breakfast—specifically pancakes—which I’d prepare for them. The place even came with a dog run where my dog, the one I planned to get as soon as I moved, could romp.

The pancake scene called to me. The nice-man-walking-down-a-path-to-greet-me played in my head, along with the happy-dog-trotting-devotedly-beside-me. This house felt like it was going to take me towards something new, something good: my fantasy life.

I wanted it.

But it was not meant to be. The house had a messy legal covenant attached. Friends tried to comfort me. “There’s always another house. You’ll know it when you see it,” they said, referring to that mysterious thing the ‘right’ house has. I wasn’t so sure, but I stepped up my search, ready to move on.

Next up was a cute red farmhouse. It had a strange utility room with a dishwasher and toilet you had to walk out of the house to reach. “I don’t think so,” said Curt.

After that came a too-small cottage that reeked of cat litter. “Disgusting,” mumbled Curt.

Then there was the ugly brick cape that would require gutting. “We’re out of here,” he said, tugging me to the car. I was glad we were on the same page, but I was starting to worry that I was being unrealistic to think I could find a house I loved in my budget.

“What’s most important to you in a house?” he asked.

I knew what I didn’t like. Dark houses, modern ranch styles, homes with fake paneling, on busy streets, or across from noisy schoolyards. But I couldn’t really say exactly what I actually liked.

I went home that night and worked on a list. What was my dream house? I loved moldings, original details. Was I shallow, I wondered, because I craved charm?

The search brought up so many emotions brewing inside me. I was excited at the thought of reinventing myself but also had a host of fears about money and buying a house alone. I knew nothing about furnaces or freezing pipes. Who would I call for help? Plus, I had recently started freelancing and my income had taken a plunge. I pored over Home Buying for Dummies, and spent hours plugging numbers into my calculator—insurance, taxes, car expenses—to see how much I really could afford.

The next weekend I toured more houses, one worse than the next. As I followed Curt’s SUV up a mountain road, it disappeared suddenly into a thick fog. I couldn’t even see his taillights. Was losing my real estate agent in the fog just too Freudian? Did I want to lose him? Did he want to lose me? I was convinced it was a sign. I wasn’t meant to buy a house.

Disappointedly driving back to the city, I saw a huge yellow moon looming over Manhattan, the biggest, brightest one I’d ever seen. It looked like it was painted onto the sky, and a cow would be leaping over it any second. Then I remembered reading that there was a ‘celestial confluence’ happening this very night; a time when the moon was closer than usual to the earth, and the earth was nearing its closest point to the sun. It felt like another sign, but unlike the last sign, it was a good one. Maybe I was getting closer to finding “it.” Maybe “it” would just appear to me as bold and sudden as this big moon.

Soon after, I saw this ad in The New York Times:

Waterfront: 115 yrs. old Victorian. Move-in cond.
Walk to village, pool, tennis & NYC bus.
Hg EIK, 2 BRs, 1 1/2 BAs, scrnd porch, patio.
Kayak, fish. By Owner.

I rushed to see it. The house immediately felt ‘like me.’ It was filled with antiques and quilts, just my style, and had a screened-in porch that looked out onto the Rondout Creek. And it had charm galore! It was owned by a couple and the wife lit up when she heard I was single and a writer, as if I was exactly the type of person she envisioned buying the house.

Four months later, it was mine. Two friends helped me unpack on moving day, and that night, we went to a restaurant to celebrate. We bumped into the couple I bought my house from there, and some people I knew from the city. My new life and old were crossing paths. It felt like a good omen. It felt like I was home.