Usually I'm not too sentimental about houses. I've lived in about 18 of them, making the average stay less than two years. At five and a half years, this one was the longest stay to date. Maybe it's the length of stay or maybe that we designed and built it ourselves. Maybe it's because both girls were born while we were here, took their first steps, uttered their first words. Our first family home. Maybe it's because I'll miss our great neighbours, the street parties or the one-hundred-plus-year-old tree in the front yard. Or maybe it's just that I'm tired. It's been a big few weeks and I find myself cleaning at 9.30pm on a Sunday night in a cold, empty house that will, soon, no longer be ours.
The flip side to all this self-inflicted stress and sadness is that the very process of sorting and packing and cleaning has provided some unexpected clarity. It’s as if the joy of discovering long lost treasures in the far corners of cupboards has uncovered some forgotten truths in the far reaches of my own mind.
When you are left with nothing except that which will fit into an overnight bag, suddenly all that is important to you becomes very clear. The things you value in home and in relationships, in life and in a material sense, all become strikingly obvious. Only when missing, do you realise they were unappreciated every single day.
So here’s to not necessarily selling your home or quitting your job, but sometimes sorting all your ‘stuff’. To discarding the old, unused and unwanted, discovering hidden treasures and occasionally living without, in order to appreciate the answers within.
