Moving In

And so it was in this tale of moving of Biblical proportions that our stuff finally arrived from England.

Nine months later.

No matter that we will be moving once again in two months’ time as the owners of this beautiful house (who said they were going to be away for years) are coming back. I did try to find us another lily pad to leap to before our stuff was delivered but alas couldn’t get out of the contract (despite them coming back early!) so  last Thursday on one of the busiest days of the year so far for me (with BlogCamp Wellington on the weekend) our stuff arrived.

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Naturally the weather was a concern. I watched the raindrops slide down the window pane and wondered how my linen and duvets would fare. I fretted about all those precious things I’d taken across to England with us five years ago. A family’s life, in boxes.

And then the clouds cleared as the truck pulled into the driveway.

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I held my breath as box after box – containing what? – piled up on the lounge room floor, until the mound of boxes covered the entire floor.

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Then I gasped at how much stuff had made the journey from Tadley, Hampshire to Auckland New Zealand. Some of which I wouldn’t have packed, but then I’m not my Englishman. I see a pile of wires and broken electrical boxes, he sees potential.

Whovian Traveller cried with joy when she opened her box of things when she came home from school. I didn’t realise they had meant so much. But maybe I should have. I used to have to discreetly remove school art projects and macaroni pictures from her room when she was little.

Some things mean more than the sum of their parts.

They have an esoteric, magical value. They carry memories within.

I smiled when my Englishman placed my much-loved Ibanez guitar on my bed. It was out-of-tune and knocked about but I still remember singing in the streets of Dunedin with it. Then he placed a white box carrying my beautiful elegant wedding dress on the bedroom floor and I remembered in a rush that day in May in North Yorkshire.

Is it materialistic to believe that things have a resonance?

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I found in the mess two pottery boots, still intact. I wiped them lovingly and placed them in pride of place next to the flowers I’d picked from the garden, on the kitchen bench.

I was given them when I was 16 years of age, as I moved out of our family home when my parents separated. They are like a talisman. They remind me that no matter where I go I will still pull on the metaphorical boots and keep going. ‘These boots are made for walking..’

Someone, somewhere knew my life would be about moving. Moving out. Moving in. Moving on.

Those boots have moved over 20 times and across the world and back again. And they are, like me, a little dusty, a little knocked about (it adds character) but importantly, still in one piece.

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Do you think it’s materialistic to believe that things have a resonance?

 

NB/ Thank you to Excess Baggage Company and to their NZ reps The Moving Company for moving us. It wasn’t their fault it took nine months,  it was ours (and sickness and money problems).