4. Letting go
It’s all very well, to say ‘just trust’.
But when that voice in your head keeps on whispering ‘Are you sure? What if it’s a mistake? What if you regret it?’ its not so easy to do.
I was going to try though. I had promised.
We’d returned home after our short trip to Portugal where we’d seen the house we wanted to buy, and I have to say it was so great to be home again. The weather had warmed up while we were gone, and on that first day back I got up early and went out onto the lower deck to do yoga, then drink some tea in the early morning spring sun.
The view across the garden from where I sat was stunning. The rain of the previous weeks had imbued everything with a surge of life-force, which created beautiful new growth throughout the garden, shades of fresh bright green, in an abundance that is perhaps unique to the glorious English spring. All around the garden, crowds of wild daisies had gathered, as if clammering for attention in groups across the lawn where Mike had carefully mowed around them. The Plum and the Cherry saplings, planted just a season ago had now turned into young trees, and were proudly displaying their fresh pink and white flowers, while the Azaleas were spilling their fragrant blooms across the banks. Our trio of fig trees so perfectly placed in the Spanish Corner were already showing the promise of the Autumn’s sweet feast to come. Ahead of me I could see our two big apple trees covered in blossom, and next to them the Raspberry bushes loaded with fruit, and awaiting our visit with a large bowl to collect some for breakfast later.
Everything looked fantastic.
And beyond this, the view across the valley to the other side of the Coombe was more spectacular than I had ever seen it. Every tree in the garden was now fully in leaf, and seemed to be glowing in multiple shades of green against the blue sky. A slight breeze was swaying the long grasses in the meadow below me where our neighbour’s three young cows were playfully grazing, and further on, the woodland on the far side of the Coombe looked like a rainforest, so rich and dense that I could no longer see any sign of our neighbour Henry’s house over on the far side. The sweet aroma of our flowering Philadelphus filled my nostrils, and the morning bird song filled my ears. It had never looked, smelled or sounded better.
Everything was perfect.
But we were moving.
And I was trusting that it was the right thing to do, and that everything would all work out ok. Or at least I was trying to.
But I was sad. I was sad that we would be going from this now so perfect place, and at such a perfect time. And it seemed ironic, and even quite wrong that all this beauty should be bringing me such sadness. Why did everything have to be looking so great right now? Why couldn’t it be cold and rainy? It would be so much easier if it were winter.
But it wasn’t.
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And I was sad that I would be moving away from my friends, some who I had known for many years, others for a short while, and a few of them neighbours. All of them special, and all of whom had said that they were sad too, even though they were also excited for us.
As the summer days came on I tried to fill my time so I wouldn’t have to think about how I felt so much. There was plenty to do to keep me busy — a room to decorate, a window to fix, and a wall to finish painting. And of course pretty soon I would have to turn my attention to sorting out all my stuff, getting rid of what we weren’t taking or couldn’t take, and then start packing everything up.
Some days over brunch, and then perhaps some more over dinner we’d talk about the new house, thinking about what we might do to make it our own, a slight change here, an improvement there. We discussed our ideas, and even researched light fittings, solar installations, electric chargers and other things we might want to do or need once we were there. And we worked out how we would get the money over there in the right currency at the best rate once it came time to sign the papers.
Until the papers were signed, nothing was for certain of course. Except that we were moving.
I might go to bed feeling pretty good, excited about our new adventure, and the thrill of the unknown. But then some nights I’d wake up with a start, not knowing where I was, but feeling something was up. And then all at once I’d remember. I’d remember that we were moving, and I’d sit up in bed and try and calm myself. I took long, deep breaths and told myself that everything was going to be ok.
After all I was trusting, or at least I was trying to.
Some days it would just hit me again. I’d start wondering why on earth we were doing this. Why couldn’t we just stay put, be happy with what we’ve got. Why do we need such a big adventure anyway? At our age. When we’ve got so much. When we live in such an amazing place. And on and on it went.
I was starting to get bored with it myself. But it wouldn’t go away.
One day I had the idea that for just a week I would write everything down. Whenever I felt anxious I would stop and really think into it. If I had a doubt, instead of pushing it aside, I would write it down in my journal, explore it a little, and see where it led. I did that for a day or two, and then I realised I didn’t need the book so I put it aside and just went through the process. And I soon realised that it wasn’t actually that I didn’t want to go or to change, it was simply that I was sad about leaving. All my concerns about the place we were about to buy, all my fears about healthcare, dentists, work, money, internet speeds, dirt roads, forest fires, whether I’d be able to get peanuts to make my own peanut butter, or get my favourite nut milk for my coffee at the weekends were trivial. And really quite irrelevant.
The truth was I was sad to leave. Really sad.
Sad to leave our amazing house and garden, and sad to leave our beautiful friends, friends who I hope and pray I will see again and again, even if not quite so often.
One morning at the end of my yoga session as I lay on my mat listening to music, I was contemplating all of this and I began to cry. I cried for myself and how sad and confused I had been feeling. I cried for my friends, old and new who I may not see again for a long time, and because I love them so much. I cried for the birds and the deer and the badgers who we would no longer be able to protect, and I cried for the trees and the shrubs and the bushes and the apples and the raspberries. And I cried for our house, the house we had called home for 21 years, that had become a beautiful haven. Then I cried for our beautiful old dogs now buried in the garden, who I would no longer be able to talk to as I walked by the stones that mark their graves. Then for my mum who had passed on six years before, and for my dad who had passed on seven years before that. I cried for the people I’d hurt by mistake, my sister, old girlfriends, and other people I’d loved and who had loved me. And then I cried for the passing of our lives, and for the times when I had missed the amazing beauty of it all. And then I cried some more.
And suddenly my tears turned to laughter. And quite what I was laughing about I couldn’t say, but I realised that I was feeling free.
I was beginning to let go.
