Archive for April, 2010

Moving and Memories

April 1, 2010

The walls inside my wood and iron house, built in 1890, are tongue and groove wooden panels. When Stuart and I found this house, we fell in love with it right away. We moved in and spent all our spare time painting and fixing the old lady. In the evenings, we would eat garlic spaghetti with spinach and work on the house while listening to music and drinking cheap red wine. One of the first rooms we painted was the toilet and Stuart had the idea to paint stripes on the wooden panels, we chose green and terracotta. Today, twelve years later, I painted the first coat of crisp white paint over those green and terracotta stripes, I am painting the house with the intention to sell her.

I always felt that I’d grow old in this house, at first, with Stuart, then after he died, I thought I’d stay here, in this magical place, forever, where the girls could grow up surrounded by sweet memories of music and dad.

I have spent the three years since Stuart died, writing my story, our story. I am almost finished writing it. There was no plan for the end of my writing about this part of my life to coincide with a possible move. But there is movement. An inner motion that is shifting my ideas. A voice that tells me that it’s time to move on. And so, a few nights ago, I made the difficult decision to put my house on the market and see where that leads.

I have a dream to live in the country with the girls one day. I have made vision boards, filled with pictures of village life, horses, chickens, a vegetable garden and children riding bicycles in the street. I don’t know how the dream will happen, I am only taking the first steps.

I am writing again, after some time off, I want to finish the book in this house, whatever happens. An ending of a chapter, the beginning of something new. Selling my house certainly isn’t going to be easy for me. Leaving everything I know and love behind. Leaving my business and all the physical memories of Stuart. I know we will always have him in our hearts, but it’s still going to be difficult. In some moments during painting, I just stop as it feels like the breath leaves me and a sadness wells up from deep down and hits me in the middle of nowhere, it’s all a part of the grief and the letting go. Sometimes I am terrified that I am not ready to do this. But still, somehow, my heart whispers underneath it all and I know. It’s almost time.