Living out of a suitcase

Opening the door of our storage unit reminded me how long we’ve had our belongings in storage. Dust fell littering everything. It’s been over a year now. Furniture teeters on boxes stacked of varying weight and fragility. A washing machine and dryer has been stuffed into the sofa while a hoary army of cockroaches reign supreme. We left our real home in the hinterland when the fires came. Our situation was meant to be temporary until Covid entered centre stage. Hunting for an item, I lug out a mattress and balance bed frames, scout through boxes, juggle with table tops jammed into tender parts of my body and wonder how to fit the jigsaw back together. It’s a practice of moving slowly and being patient while dripping with sweat. Smoothing over the red fabric of a chair, the one my daughter used to hide in when it had a broken back and she could make a den inside, I realise how much of our life had been on hold. Packed up. I found a few more books and pictures to soothe the pangs my daughter gets for her own home. We’ve had a safe haven for which we are grateful and which has come with its own pressures and idiosyncrasies. There has also been a deep heart pining. And I understand more clearly why when I gently uncover art materials, boxes of crafts, our sewing machine, gifts from nature, feathers and shells and driftwood, scribbly drawings and notes from when Remy was little, clothes, so much of our life waiting to unfurl again. Belongings may not be vital in the scheme of things but there is a magic in their resonance, in the store of secrets and memories they hold. They share some of their owner. Before I left I was given the vision of a startling blue sky, a young boat ploughing out to sea, its creamy sail rolling open and billowing out fully in the sun’s shining glory. Whatever the journey holds, our hearts seem to be the compass and trust is the navigation. We will pack our bags again and catch the wind for a whole new adventure!