It's going to be a new slate once again. The fourth house in seven years, but with a big difference. With the tag of it being 'ours'. It's a ticklish feeling of entering your own abode. The 'site' that I had been visiting for the past several months, the brick and bare house that transformed bit by bit in front of my eyes, the house that no longer will be alluded to as the 'site' but our 'home', is finally ready-to-move-in and we are busy packing our belongings.
Does it feel euphoric? Do I feel like doing a small jig in the air, curl up my nose in pride to people who ask and say I'm going to my 'home'? Actually, no. This, and all the previous homes that I lived in was ours too till we decided to move out. You invest something more than money in every house that you stay, making it yours. Each time we moved out of a place, a home, we left behind a set of memories, collecting more nostalgia as we moved on.
The very first house after marriage was special for me in every sense. I was truly on my own, making small and big decisions for myself and for the home that was my husband's and mine. Every little item added to the house gave me a sense of pride and there is a lot of memory associated with every nook and corner in that house. The second house was where R was born into, where he first started to crawl and where I first learned to handle a baby, a house and the whole new dimension of motherhood.
But, of all, this is one house I'll miss the most. This has been the one that gave me wings; a place that let me discover the mother in me and then re-discover myself after motherhood. Some lovely friends, a vibrant community, cultural events that I've been a part of, all of these added many rich layers to my relationship with this place.
A major part of R's growing up has happened here. I still remember taking him down in his stroller, itching to make adult conversation, barely being able to nod and smile at someone before R's patience ran out and heading back home. A few months later it would be me running after R, still itching to make adult conversations but ending up exploring the empty vast parking lot of the complex and learning the car models along with R. Then, finally, the time came when R decided to play with other kids and when I actually could hold a conversation with fellow mothers for more than a while after a nod and smile. Our respective friendships blossomed, as a sub-set initially and then as individual entities where mothers of his friends did not need to be my friends and vice-versa; a long way we have come.
The routine also has a way of anchoring you to a place in many ways than one. The familiarity of faces, the genuiness of some, the quirkiness of some others, the feel-good factors, the irritants, all of these root you emotionally and sooner than you realize you relate yourself to a place with such parameters, not wanting to let go.
It's not easy saying good-bye. It's not easy to let go. But, let go, I must. To let me enable myself to anchor once again. To find the familiarity in the new, to discover new quirkiness and embrace some genuineness; to make a new routine and let in fresh emotions. To begin a new story on a new slate.
Does it feel euphoric? Do I feel like doing a small jig in the air, curl up my nose in pride to people who ask and say I'm going to my 'home'? Actually, no. This, and all the previous homes that I lived in was ours too till we decided to move out. You invest something more than money in every house that you stay, making it yours. Each time we moved out of a place, a home, we left behind a set of memories, collecting more nostalgia as we moved on.
The very first house after marriage was special for me in every sense. I was truly on my own, making small and big decisions for myself and for the home that was my husband's and mine. Every little item added to the house gave me a sense of pride and there is a lot of memory associated with every nook and corner in that house. The second house was where R was born into, where he first started to crawl and where I first learned to handle a baby, a house and the whole new dimension of motherhood.
But, of all, this is one house I'll miss the most. This has been the one that gave me wings; a place that let me discover the mother in me and then re-discover myself after motherhood. Some lovely friends, a vibrant community, cultural events that I've been a part of, all of these added many rich layers to my relationship with this place.
A major part of R's growing up has happened here. I still remember taking him down in his stroller, itching to make adult conversation, barely being able to nod and smile at someone before R's patience ran out and heading back home. A few months later it would be me running after R, still itching to make adult conversations but ending up exploring the empty vast parking lot of the complex and learning the car models along with R. Then, finally, the time came when R decided to play with other kids and when I actually could hold a conversation with fellow mothers for more than a while after a nod and smile. Our respective friendships blossomed, as a sub-set initially and then as individual entities where mothers of his friends did not need to be my friends and vice-versa; a long way we have come.
The routine also has a way of anchoring you to a place in many ways than one. The familiarity of faces, the genuiness of some, the quirkiness of some others, the feel-good factors, the irritants, all of these root you emotionally and sooner than you realize you relate yourself to a place with such parameters, not wanting to let go.
It's not easy saying good-bye. It's not easy to let go. But, let go, I must. To let me enable myself to anchor once again. To find the familiarity in the new, to discover new quirkiness and embrace some genuineness; to make a new routine and let in fresh emotions. To begin a new story on a new slate.
