We all need to feel grounded.
Walls and hedges, floors and edges, markers to our world’s defining spaces. Blanket stitching a creative space for everything to come, and everything to reflect upon; a place to heal within, to plan from.. A place to rest and go from next. A place to call home. A hub to conjure up new ideas and have fun in. A place to nurture old friendships in and grow new ones in.
We make temporary spaces naturally at our desks, in our childhood bedrooms, in our holiday hotel rooms, even it seems, ( from recent Netflix binges) in our prison cells. In the last three months of my pregnancy, when I was kept in more than I was allowed home, (due to a complication;) my corner of the ward very soon held an assortment of personal memorabilia. A cushion, paintbrushes, all the quirks and accoutrements I probably don’t know are me– but everyone else does!
As a child I held family open days to show off my new bedroom layout. Creating different versions of normal and making new from old. Hours of pushing the bed from one side of the room to the other with my legs shoving the base inch by inch across the floor and rearranging my Wham posters !(yes, I was that kid) and on holiday it doesn’t feel the same until the suitcase is unpacked, the toiletries are in the bathroom, and we know what time breakfast is. A little bit of home from home.
Every student flat, every house, every holiday campsite, no matter how temporary is a blank canvas for a new beginning.
Every one a new route to friendships and chance.
Occasionally there must be a inevitable spanner.
Paper Cut The walls are paper thin here, Each paper rustle heard. Each line of book surrendered, T'wards rest like idle birds. On wings of paper feathers, Forgotten, inked at last. Between the paper walls, Burt embers of the past. This paper cuts each finger, A trail of pink and read. We stitch each words so carefully, Each hope with paper thread. A paper trail of bows left, Tied on the seat of kites. They dive through days and shady lanes, And feed on terabytes. We're papering the cracks now, To show we're almost real. A chain of paper dolls stuck fast, were lined up, toe to heal. Our supper on our paper plates, This picnic tastes the same. And though the walls are made of card, We're sheltered from this rain. And while the paper calendar, Knows not where life will take her, We stumble through this paper maze, and sleep on formal papers. In time we'll empty boxes, A cardboard overwhelm. We'll sail on paper aeroplanes, Exploring new, old realms. We'll find our lost belongings, In tissue, and newsprint. And mark our new tomorrows, With smudgy fingerprints.
This poem was inspired by life over recent months . A period of beautiful, but, at times; almost unbearable stillness.
Where once was busy routine, noise, people, structure and and planning of things to get through the seasons of the year; the details, the full stops and punctuation, the life chapters, those that will become embarrassing Facebook reminders in a year or two for groaning offspring; days going by in snapshots of celebration and those yet to be experienced.
What was to be a few months of waiting for a house move has stretched to over half a year.
Not knowing an outcome for a move or a big life change is a hard thing to cope with, no matter whether you are a small or a bigger, experienced human.
When we make a home, it is the centre of our web. From there we can go places and do things and join things, make things happen. Grow roots.
For various reasons this year, this has been on hold a little while.
It isn’t always easy to stay positive without our p.j.c (personal joy collection. ) How easily our solid house of cards can become paper thin. A home is so vital but even more so, are the friendships we nurture within it. To say I crave the smell of chalk paint and new carpets, even a trip to b and q, would be an understatement.
But, when life gives us lemons..
If you had told me we would be packing for this many months, it would have been impossible to imagine what we needed. We could only take so much with us, most of that was for animals. Some clothes for each season and the basics. Which have been added to, seasonally including a birthday each and Christmas. It feels a little now that what we have here now, in our temporary home, is the sum of our belongings. When someone has a bad day, it is so easy to forget that this isn’t our life now. Or who we will be forever more. That this is who we all are now. And at times when it is hard, that this is the whole picture.
But every day is a new beginning. ( I love mornings) And in between the slow ticking of the clock are revitalising rushes of appreciation for what still is . And what will be.
There are still bookshops and mornings, hugs and sprinkles on your coffee, ideas and paws,
Sunrises, amazing architecture, hugs, tiny cinemas and beautiful views.
Happy memories from Skye Blue House inspiring New ideas for the next Home
In these twixt days and months, in the early hours, these precious daylight hours, when school keeps her busy, or cold winter evenings waiting for news of housey things; much is being created and made.
Soon we will grow flowers. Until then we will just grow more (im)patient and bigger piles of paper…
Sometimes the big picture takes a little longer to materialise !
And we must make and be ..
With love and gratitude
Liz at the Beach Hut x