Last night, just before bedtime, I realised that there was nothing in my diary for today. That this would be the first day living in my new home when there was absolutely nothing I had to do. A shimmer of panic ran through me but dissipated as I realised that for the first time in a very long time — perhaps the first time since I was about three years old — I could do whatever I liked. There’s something terrifying about that until the exhilaration hits.
I’ve been here just over two weeks now, revelling in setting up my new home, unpacking the treasures I’ve brought with me, sitting chatting with old friends and my daughter, Annie, and getting to know my new neighbours who include many very elderly people (mainly women) as well as a magnificent old camphor laurel tree, its neighbouring liquid amber, the myriad birds and the glorious gardens.
For the first time since I lived in the Forgotten Valley several years ago, I’ve been watching the sun and the moon rise, tracking their transits across the sky. Aligning the rhythm of my days and nights with theirs. My balcony faces exactly the right direction.
Before I went to bed last night, I pondered what to do with this precious day, and pencilled a little list into my diary. Because I know that, despite my buoyant spirit and optimistic soul, it’s all too easy to slip gradually into the paralysis of despond when one spends too much time alone and, in certain ways, isolated.
Morning pages aren’t listed because they are as much a part of my routine as sleeping, eating, drinking, showering and brushing my teeth. I sit at my round glass-topped table very early each day with the candle lit and a cup of tea, and let the words flow. Today, when I focused, the beginnings of a haiku emerged.
Then breakfast, shower, and a gentle walk around the gardens and local streets. Home to write my first blog post from this place. Later, I’ll read a bit, work on a couple of crochet projects, watch a bit of TV, rest. Perhaps chat to someone on the phone.
I’m aware that there will be much inner exploring to do now that I’ve nudged open the long-locked doors of my imagination; much to discover and rediscover now that I have a home of my own and great stretches of time ahead of me. The future feels expansive, creative and wonderful.
birdsong cool breeze light
spaciousness — held in the strong
gentle arms of home