It is so quiet. I’m sitting in my new home, tired, drained even…but here I am. There’s soft music in the background: a tape I haven’t played in quite some time. Yes I still play audio cassettes. We talk about sustainability but throw away things that are perfectly serviceable. I will eventually get around to replacing the tapes, if only to save on storage space, but mostly only when they give up the ghost – I’m in no rush.
I’m in no rush to do anything right now. Now is a time to pause.
Other people have called this my “forever home” and my “dream home”. I don’t know if either of those things are true, but the person who said “a lot of heart has gone into making it what it is” was not wrong.
It’s taken a while to get here, to bring together the bits and pieces of all our lives.Some still languish in the garage; some still in my old property not yet completely cleared while I wait on the final bits of work here. There have been a few tears: some bittersweet memories, stress catching up with me, days of late nights, early mornings and little sleep in between the two combining to keep emotion barely in check.
There have also been unexpected surprises. Flowers: spotting vibrant reds of I’m not sure what in my garden was the first “oh!” of the day, none of the retrieved labels identify it and the plan is buried somewhere for now; and softer pinks and blues from emerging meadow flowers. Blooms quickly followed by a pair of Jays hopping about. I haven’t got into the habit of putting food out yet, but there’s enough out there to be scavenged after the rain. Then some indoor flowers: a gift of white lilies and roses – absolute favourites – delivered in a large ceramic pot which will go on to hold the memory of these first few days even as it holds other plants or flowers in the years to come.
So here I am. He wanted me to have this place and he wanted me to live in it. I know he wouldn’t approve of everything I’ve done to it, but I think he’d be impressed that I have got it done and shown it some love, and I think when I’ve finished the work and the salvage operations, he’d understand what I’ve done in bringing together the bits and pieces, from his life and from mine, from his parents and from mine. I couldn’t keep everything, and everything has its own story, its own memories. The thing about stories is that we can’t hear them all; we have to choose. I’ve done so entirely on instinct, one decision at a time. Not everything is going to plan; the clock has stopped working again; I have no TV signal and getting the internet reconnected was more stress than it needed to be (though to be fair in the grand scheme of things: quick enough); the gutters can’t handle heavy rain I discovered in this afternoon’s torrent, and I find I still have too much “stuff” – more will have to be let go.
But most things seem to be what they’re supposed to be and when I look around, I have to admit that, whether or ‘the girl done good’, the girl is dead chuffed. I can honestly say that thus far, I have not a single regret, not a decision made that I wish I had made differently.
So here I am, turning the page into the next chapter and pondering small things....
Small things...like the garden being overgrown already, like wondering if Nigel really did plumb the wash machine properly (he didn’t sound convinced), like the outstanding work, and the unpacking, and getting up every few minutes thinking ‘no that doesn’t look right there’ and moving stuff. It’ll all find its proper home in due course.
Small things...like eating at the table, which somehow feels right now that it’s in the living room in a way it never did when it was in a separate dining room...like coffee for breakfast (who says I don’t?)...like the flowers and birds in the garden...and I think I have a fox wandering through, not sure yet because I haven’t seen it, but there’s something bigger than a cat upsetting things I think...
Small things... candles in the hearth...and Chris Rea and Eric Clapton on the stereo...”stereo” that ages me doesn’t it?!
Small things like working out the orientation of the bungalow, WSW. I get the evening sun in the living room. I notice how the light splits as it catches the bevelled edge of the mirror above the fireplace.
There’s still work to be done. And there are some things I had intended to do, that I might not. We still need to live into each other, this place and I.
In response to pictures a friend said it looked “comfortable”. For some reason that felt like a euphemism for something less complimentary. But I can see what she means.
It probably isn’t what people might expect of me. It’s quite old-fashioned and a mixture of styles, but yes, it is “comfortable” and what more, what else, would I want my home to be? I’d love it to look like Hercule Poirot’s 1930’s apartment but I can’t do minimalism. I love the look, but my life is more eclectic, more cluttered, more earthy! I like texture, wood, fabric. I like old things, gifts, souvenirs, things that hold moments. I have plans to look closely at these things and the moments they hold – because we don’t do that often enough. It’s only when we move or when we have a clear out that we really think about the things we live with, how they came to be part of our lives and what (if anything) they mean to us. I’m with Morris that we should have nothing that is not either beautiful or useful…but beauty can be in the meaning rather than the form.
I thought the first few days would feel strange – but no. It does feel like coming home. There are memories here, but they’re comforting rather than disconcerting. It’s different enough, the same enough, mine enough.
