Many years ago I met the man who had brought my parents house before they left New Zealand. He told me that he held the most incredible house warming party, fuelled with the pills that were found when he moved in and lifted the carpets.
When I leave my present home what will be found in the cracks?
Beads, and thousands of them, in every colour and shape. In the garden they will discover previously lost bones of the many creatures that I had found dead and buried to be worked with at a later date.
Of late I have been sifting through eighteen years of paperwork. Letters from debt collection agencies, bills, love letters, records of purchases, pay slips, events attended and plane tickets.
Trying to be ruthless and sift through a paper trail of time lived so quickly, without lingering, is a task in itself.
Packing possessions is working through more solid reminders of who I was. What do I choose to leave, to give away, and to take?
How do I qualify what will be of value to the person I may become. Should I work on a scale of money, practicality or aesthetics?
I find it’s difficult to give myself time to make art or write as I create something very different, the foundations of a new life.
I am aware, very aware, that I am doing something not at all uncommon for a person of a ‘certain age’. Leaving a redundant life in pursuit of old dreams, whilst I still have a chance, strength, will and energy. However I am also aware of peers who, taking the same risks, have ended up sheltering in my home because they have nowhere else to go.
No matter how much I hedge my bets and act in a measured and sensible manner, I am aware the stirring of an inner adventurer that has long been buried under mounds of adult responsibility and standardised rules of engagement and behaviour.
I feel a buzz of excitement but a fear as well, so I try and temper both by reading about property markets, stamp duty and legal fees.
It’s all good, it’s all right, it’s all change.