Coming Home.

Tired2_1

It is a beautiful day. All early spring sun light  and  washing lines.

You know when I started BrocanteHome nearly eighteen months ago I  saw it as an opportunity to document my way of life: to show other women that quieting the raging wants we all experience daily was possible by redefining the way we lived at home. I saw it as a way of marking the passage of time in a life I adored. A life I still adore.

But this morning, the first morning I've really been well enough to get back to my well honed routines it struck me that I miss my life the way it used to be- a life less blogged.

I've been a hopeless housekeeper for a while now. Mostly because I've been sick. One infection after another has taken it's toll, and I've found myself swinging between running around like a headless chicken trying to catch up with myself and lying almost comatose whenever the opportunity presented itself.

This morning I woke up feeling kind of half dead as usual. I dragged myself down the stairs and revived myself with a strong cup of coffee and realised that this can't go on. I can't go on living the way I do: it is exhausting me and more than that my constant need to push myself on and on is comprimising my life to the degree that every aspect of it seems to be crumbling around me- from the peeling paint on the walls in the living room, to the management of Finleys Celiacs, my almost constant failure to look after myself properly and the way I've been running BrocanteHome lately- without any of the passion that inspired it in the first place.

So I didn't switch the computer on. I washed and dressed, tied on my pinny and begged my lovely Mark to take Finley out for a while. And then I went to find myself in the kitchen.

You can live your life in a house day after day and not really notice the decay seeping into it's walls. You go on doing what you do,  one week after another  and the fact that chaos reigns goes unnoticed as you pacify yourself with the fact that life is  more or less what it should be because who really has the time to notice the dust sitting atop  the crystal sugar bowl?  And haven't you got more important things to worry about now, like three hundred unanswered emails and a post or six to get up before Bob the Builder finishes and you are once again at the beck and call of your babba?   

This morning, in my silly pink kitchen I remembered why I invented Vintage HouseKeeping. Why I created BrocanteHome. I played Classic Fm on my Roberts radio, opened the windows a wide as can be and set to scrubbing my sink  into a Flylady frenzy. I baked a chocolate cake with a bar of the most divine  pink peppercorn chocolate and  sat on my  wobbly pink stool and drank Kuzmi tea from a scrumptiously perfect violet teacup. I wiped down surfaces I'd forgotten I had, watched my parmesan loaf rise, re-labelled my flour cannisters,  and felt calmer than I have done in weeks.

I need to re-claim my life before I felt the urge to blog, analyse and photograph every aspect of it. I need to bring the house back to life. To live gently again. To re-ignite enthusiasm for who I am and who I want to be...

So I'm calling time on BrocanteHome. Not forever. Just till my house and life are in order again.  Till I know where I want to take Brocante Home and more than that, where it wants to take me.

Is that alright?

On My Wishlist...