I am probably a week away (fingers crossed) from saying goodbye to my house for always and the mixture of both relief and sadness is palpable.
I shall miss this little house of mine, but it is no longer what it used to be. In fact I haven’t lived here really for six months and now a house that was once fragranced by lavender and love, smells musty and neglected.
But it wasn’t always so: once the little walls of this tiny Victorian terraced cottage were a celebration of all that puttery and lovely. An ode to the kind of abundant domesticity I have been recommending to you for the past twelve years.
But houses are more than just the pretty. More than just the routines and rituals of daily life. They are memory boxes. The walls lined in our own history. And I had to move out because that history had started to stain my rosy wallpaper and I couldn’t escape it.
Of course there are good memories as well as bad ones. I brought my baby home to this house and found it filled with balloons and flowers…
I spent so many happy hours here laughing. Playing. Singing. And content.
Sometimes I hugged the house and sometimes the house hugged me. (We all need hugging sometimes don’t we?).
Even when the bad times came the house still felt like a sanctuary. I put everything I had in to making it into a gallery of my soul, and I loved nothing better than closing the door on the world and hibernating there.
But if I have learnt anything it is that life cannot be static. And that sometimes we have to be brave and move on from places and people that are no longer serving us.
Doors close so we can open another don’t they? Though I am so very grateful to my little house and to how it shaped me as a homemaker and I do believe I will miss it for always…