Hello! It’s me, bursting through the surface of a slightly murky pond and taking some deep, vital, life affirming breaths: Holy sweet moly it’s good to see you here on the lovely other side of a slightly traumatic, near drowning-in-chaos event. That sounds dramatic but when the contents of one’s house is being carted up the road by a booze of year twelve leavers in a cloud of dust, there is a bit of drama involved*.
We have moved into our new, beautiful house. And it’s marvelous. We have managed to move every last tiny bit of our lives from a house by the sea, 6 km up the road to a house on the hill. And then I unpacked those bits and put them in their place. Actually that’s not quite truth. There are still boxes and sundry shite in the garage, which I will leave there for a bit in case any passing burglars decide to pop in and clear it out. Failing that, I’ll get to it one day.
For the moment, with the washing machine chugging away after a week of being unhooked, the telly finally tuned and my clothes hanging in the WALK IN WARDROBE (I’m a bit in love, with the wardrobe, not the clothes, they are frankly awful next to their lovely new home), I feel a tiny bit in control. I even discovered my smart phone wifi hotspot (imagine saying that 10 years ago, people’d think you’re some sort of kinky weirdo) so I can RECONNECT. Go the hotspot.
I’m not good at disconnection. I’m not good at change either.
It’s not that I don’t like change. I appreciate a bit of refreshment and get-out-of-ruttage. I like a good declutter, much like a really good poo. But I find it hard to move on. I get attached to places and people and then can’t imagine things being as good. I was heading to the house we dreamed up and built from scratch, but still I was on the verge of tears for a good month whenever I thought of leaving our old, grumpy, creaky old home behind in favour of a sparkly new one. Still am.
In the midst of moving, I watched as my dear Mum was sworn in as Tasmania’s first female Governor. With trumpets blazing above her, she was heralded into the grand ballroom or Government House and welcomed with thunderous applause. It was a moment I will never forget, and treasure forever. My children’s eyes danced and smiled and mine filled again with tears. Proud tears.
Mum and Dad leave my family home, the place where Dad was born and where I was married. Another change. Another ending.
At the children’s school, we said farewell to the beloved principle, the man who first introduced my twins to the alphabet when they were two and the one who saw the school through the fires that burnt it to the ground. We also said goodbye to their kinder teacher, to their wonderful drama teacher and to their cooking teacher. More tears. Funding cut angry tears, and sad goodbye ones.
In our new house where I can see the sky change above Marion Bay and Maria Island catch the light; where I can watch the sea rise and fall and the cows come in for milking, I cry again for all the beauty and the luck of it all.
And when the hills hoist goes up I wonder at how I love being an Aussie and again feel moved. At this point I have to slap myself and get on with things. Imagine getting dewy eyed over a clothesline. Moist over the hoist. (Not that kind of moist, that would be weird. Must stop saying moist).
There are so many things to get on with, like unpacking bloody everything. And a new home is not all that conducive to getting anything done. There is no rhythm yet, no working patterns. So I do a lot of unnecessary walking and pacing and back tracking as I try to find my way around the space, find things, get things away. Everything takes longer. And there’s that sky to watch, that’s an endless task.
So things end and things change and people move on. Then other things begin and new things happen and stay until they’re not new anymore. Before too long I’ll be attached to them and things will settle for a bit. I can feel the settling. It’s a way off, but it’s on the way.
Oh wait, there’s Christmas first. When is it? Next Thursday. Holy shit, that’s a week. I have a week to get organised and I haven’t started yet. To think I used to make shortbread and puddings. Right, must make a list. On top of it will be to stop getting bogged down in sentimentality and nostalgia and wist. It’s so time wasting. Nothing like Christmas to focus the mind, get things in order, and to make a house a home.
But first I need to watch the twilight in the sky.
*Huge thank you to our moving team, you were all brilliant. If a bit stinky.
Categories: Navelgazery
Tags: change, moving house, nostalgia, wistful
megoracle.com 
Lovely Blog. Difficult to embrace change. Hang in there.
Merry Christmas, and have a safe settled New Year. That view will calm you for a lifetime.
Wow! What a wonderful new start for your and your mother – we (Tasmanians) are already so proud of her. No one remembers the shortbread or pudding – just the crazy Christmas pudding ice cream you all made mixing rocky road and road and Turkish delight with ice cream and offering anything anyone wants for breakfast on Christmas Day ( the options took hours to resolve). Have a brilliant Christmas and thank you for your engaging, funny and thoughtful writing – you have a unique voice and it is greatly appreciated. Very best xx
Oh Meg, this is one of your best posts, so poignant and beautifully written. I can see why you ‘Taswegians’ are a cut above the rest of us. i immediately looked up your Mum and saw a glimpse of the ceremony. She looks pretty damn impressive. By the way, I recommend a spot of Christmas baking. Despite the chaos I have produced a few batches of gingerbread and hazelnut biscuits. My kids love them and so do our guests and it makes me feel anchored and Christmasy so try to fit in an hour of baking before the 24th!
Thank you Marina – I will do my best to bake tomorrow. Merry Christmas to you. x
Happy Christmas in your new house meg. And yes I do understand your affection for your clothesline…
What a reverie. And then “At the children’s school, (you) said farewell to the beloved principle” of correct usage: your own school “principal” may be more forgiving than this old Scrooge of an uncle, but an autodidact always beats autocorrect! And then you confound this old curmudgeon with your “sentimentality and nostalgia and WIST”, displaying that creativity beats mean correctness. So thanks, keep it up. I do love it. And happy xmas.
I should have added I’m so glad your children’s principal was obviously principled, your father and I only got a head master!