Another morning and it’s a week now since I moved into the granny flat at the back of the property. The morning chatter from the birds and the night time stalking of the possums reminds me I am just another creature in this universe. The rolling thunder of trucks heading up and down Willunga Hill carrying produce of the Fleurieu to and fro are also keepin’ it real. This is a site first created for a human who is long gone, and since been occupied by others – family, friends, travellers and tourists -and now it is making its way by turning into a dwelling for me. Not quite there yet, but it is beginning to feel like it could become home.
The shedding of so much of my life, and the lives of those I have shared a home with, to fit into this space and make enough room inside of me as well to fit. What is it that makes us fit or not fit in somewhere? There is familiarity, invitational grace, comfort, welcome, anticipation you will have what you need when you arrive and can leave a legacy. The decisions about what to take and what to leave behind, what needs to be constructed, reconstructed, bought new, are decisions of time and space. What serves me at this time in my life? There is no need for 27 tablecloths when you don’t have a dining room table any more and there isn’t room for one anyhow. Yet that table has hosted conversations of life and death across generations and bares the signatures of little ones in crayon on its belly. And all the CDs, a bridging technology with little to offer into the future where on demand tracks can be voiced to be heard. I could go on and on with a litany of items from clothes to spoons – exactly how many teaspoons do you need – no more than two or three people could fit on the verandah so why would I need 16 teaspoons?
In choosing which paintings or prints can come with me, I have discovered I have a hierarchy of what art I like the most. All the art made by Australians especially those from Central Australia went to the top of the list, an early piece by my grandson as a pre-toddler has come too. I have noticed what is unique has taken precedence in my making choices – things that could not be replicated or replaced. Signs of what belongs to me and what I belong to are fused in notes falling out of books and in the programs of concerts past. Memories can travel with the pilgrim without any need for a material reminder.
The visceral and vicarious moments waft in and out on the incense I burn, to purify the space of those who have been here before me. This is my attempt at limiting the impact of friendly fire in the flashbacks I am having in this time of disruption. I have popped some lemons on the counter to coax out a lemonade attitude to this move. It seems to be working.
Some of the fruits of labour and love lost, are making their way to recycling bins, charity shops, the street verge and other homes. It will take a while to settle as it is space I have never occupied and not even slept a night in despite all the years the cottage has been on the property. Over time, this could become a nest for me to fly in and out of and a sanctuary for my Self, but for now I am gathering twigs and working out the best scaffold to hold me between the branches, and batting off the agony of making a new nest alone.