The ties that bind us to a marriage are not unlike those that tie us home. Emotion ebbs and flows. Sometimes we are guilty of apathy . Sometimes the four walls that surround us no more than a blanket we wear to keep out the cold. At other times we smother surfaces in hope and lavender and cannot leave well alone. And then there are the days when being at home is enough. When we give up striving for what isn’t and lie still in the peculiar music of silence. At one with our house. At one with ourselves and unlikely aspirations.
Lately I feel as though the house is slipping away from me. If it it was a marriage I would want to call time on this willful neglect. I would say enough, nows the time to re-connect. I would turn our worlds upside down so we could be together, time to repair damage done by time, time by ourselves. I would say, I’m sorry, I won’t take you for granted anymore. Won’t expect you to thrive in the face of my indifference. I will look after you, I promise…
Whole weeks go by and though I go through the motions, follow basic routines and light candles every evening something is missing. There is no real interest there, other than for what the house can offer me: warmth, light and nourishment. No joy to be felt simply in it’s presence only a lingering sense that life would be so much better if I had a new oven. If there was a door in the kitchen straight into the yard. New pillows puffed with the happiness of Spring….
Because a new season is almost upon us. The cosy bliss of Winter now exhausted and layers of dust thick enough to write a promise in, just asking to be blown away. Looking back through the archives of BrocanteHome I can see this coming weekend, this turning point, marked every year. The weekend I plant the first batch of beans. The day I brush Winter out of the garden. The evening I clean the bathroom twinkly white and spend hours brushing away the layers of dull skin coating my body.
Today I bought an armful of lilac tulips. A new block of parma violet soap. A pile of dusters thick as a dictionary, because Spring is tingling in my fingertips and I owe it to my tiny little terraced cottage to fall in love with it all over again. To prove my love with elbow grease and imagination.
I heal you and when I let you, you heal me.