Old Home New Spirit

Eight years ago almost to the day we moved to France. Our English home had been rented out until last week when we took possession of the keys to the house to add a bit of love and care. The builders have arrived today and all that needs to be done is to watch the old home being transformed one bit at a time.

It feels strange sitting here on the bay window, with nothing to do, just look out and reminisce. What had passed and what would take place next. The arbour looks tired, the windows drab. New frames will add a sparkle. The whole house is redolent with memories. The same us, older and in a different place in life – middle aged empty nesters with a French spirit, missing the mountains, the baguette, the cheese, the wine, the customary closures of shops. What had seemed an annoyance in France seems normal – the long hours of shops being open in England appears vulgar in comparison - an insult to hearth and home. The need for earning money and commercial success at the cost of quality of life sickens me – the very same person who had complained endlessly about random shop opening times on French soil. Are we so hard to please as customers? As people?

It’s a cool summer day, the temperature dropping to 19 degrees. What happened to the sun? The promised heat? Who changed the roads while we were away?

It’s such a mixture of feelings, this going back into an old life, temporarily. I feel dissatisfied and unsettled – part of me wants it back as it was, part of me wants to stay where I am now, knowing it would never be the same. Something has changed. We have changed. Our children have grown up and no longer dwell under our giant wings protecting them from every hurt. They call a different city a home.

Who am I then, if not the provider of home? What is my new role? I think about these things. Within weeks a new family would live here - where our children played football, where they fought their nightly bedtime battles. The grown up children look back with fondness but don’t want to go back to the past. They are always moving forward, to another time, to another future, their future. It is I who is left behind, cradling memories.

It is time to let go.

I hear my mother saying, ‘It’s all just bricks and mortar. Don’t hang on to anything.’
She is right.