The hidden joy of moving house
Spoiler alert: there is none. Moving house sucks. But that wouldn’t make much of a blog, now would it?
So instead I choose to share with you the hidden joys and new beginnings to be found in packing all of your worldly belongings into boxes and bags, paying strangers to transport them to a new building similar to the one you already had, and then unpack those same belongings in a not dissimilar arrangement than before — also known colloquially as ‘moving house’.
I’ve lived in my current home for four years. It is a beautiful house, with beautiful neighbours and I have been settled there with my son. It has served its purpose as my safe space while going through the trials and tribulations of divorce and solo parenting. It has been my cave in the forest which I retreated to lick my wounds (the suburb is even called Frenchs Forest). But that time, as scary as the prospect feels, is over. It’s time for me to re-enter civilisation, and that means packing up and, to quote Billy Joel, “If that’s movin’ up, then I’m movin’ out.”
This house has been the setting of so many mixed experiences. My son’s first steps. His first words. Birthdays, Christmases and lazy Sunday mornings snuggled on the couch. Countless happy afternoons spent playing with my son and our dog in the sun-drenched bedrooms. But also the lonely nights on my own when my son was with his father. The breakdown of another relationship post-divorce. There has been a flood of tears shed and anger processed under this roof. It’s time for a new chapter, and a new home is the first step on that path to accepting life as it is now — with all it’s beauty and bother.
It’s human nature to remember things with fondness and to neglect our memories of the bad bits. Maybe that’s why grandparents often refer to the “good old days” — yes, life was simple and wholesome; but also, polio. I’m trying to avoid that trap and instead look to the positives of all that is to come as opposed to all that has already been.
To help close the chapter on this difficult and beautiful period of my life, I have chosen to leave all of the anger, sadness and regret behind — I’m not packing any of it. The emotional baggage will not be unpacked in our new home. I have cleaned out my cupboards, sold or donated everything that doesn’t serve a purpose and tossed the rest. It’s been challenging but cathartic.
It’s human nature to remember things with fondness and to neglect our memories of the bad bits. Maybe that’s why grandparents often refer to the “good old days” — yes, life was simple and wholesome; but also, polio.
Clear space, clear mind
I was speaking to a good friend about the upcoming move, and I likened the state of my house to the state of my mind at this point in time. Everything looks tidy and well presented to the eye, but as soon as you open a cupboard it’s crammed with “stuff” — not a clear space to be found. My cupboards, like my mind, have been totally packed to the rafters; with largely useless, unused and long-past their best-by-date items. I have a tin of beetroot in the back of the pantry that has accompanied me on my last five house moves, including one from Hobart Tasmania to Sydney NSW in 2007. Why? Just why?
I told my friend this situation was a direct reflection of my current mental overwhelm — thinking largely useless, unhelpful and catastrophising thoughts, thanks to a state of total ‘mind clutter’ (*trademark pending). I liken it to my mum’s Tupperware cupboard growing up — throw it in and shut the door before the whole thing comes crashing down on you. Keep that cupboard shut lest a torrent of Tupperware knocks you over on your arse.
Except this house move is all about a fresh start, so I need to open those doors, catch the deluge, Marie Kondo the sh*t out of it and make the space for something new.
Marie Kondo has officially become a verb. And don’t we all love her for it? (The skip businesses sure do; self-storage companies not so much…) I’m going from a large two bedroom house with a double garage to a smaller house with no garage, so it’s a ruthless undertaking. And I think I have found my calling.
Does this tin of beetroot spark joy? Given the best before date is 12 August 2008, I think it’s safe to say the only thing that tin would spark is a nasty bout of gastro. In the bin!
Does this solid timber entertaining unit serve a purpose? Yes, it does — but it does not spark joy because it belonged to my ex-husband. On the fire with it! (That’s not true, I sold it on Gumtree — but that doesn’t have the same literary impact).
Does this five-year-old child spark joy? Look, not all the time, but thinking practically I should keep him around to look after me when I’m old. Plus, it seems like he’ll be pretty tall one day and that will be handy for reaching the high shelves and changing lightbulbs. He can stay!
And so on and so forth the process has continued room-by-room, space-by-space. And it’s been incredibly empowering and cleansing (and not in a 12-year-old tin of beetroot kind of way). And I finally find myself feeling more excitement than fear about the move — which is a pretty big deal given I’ve been trying to get to this point for almost two years.
So finally, in the spirit of Marie Kondo, when we leave the forest in two weeks time, I will thank our little home for all it has done for us in the last four years before we move on to wonderful new beginnings.
