A hand-dyed egg from pre-school that cracked within minutes of being home. A dishevelled nest the perfect resting place for such needy beauty.
I’m not even going to hint at the metaphors exuding the crumbling shell and wabi-sabi nest but I will say that packing boxes and not knowing where we’ll unpack them is quite disconcerting.
We’re getting closer and closer to our move date and yet the right house hasn’t made an appearance just yet. We’re going to rent for another six months because rushing into buying seems foolish so we’re painstakingly checking the real estate website and hoping (praying!) that something surfaces.
Today I packed all the non-essential kitchen items, taped up the boxes and piled them against the wall. Small, significant steps. But as my fingers got black from newspaper print and the cupboards started to look bare, I realised how important a house is. Creating a home and building a nest is such a primal experience for me; without it I feel lost.
There’s so much to do at the moment and there are nothing but late nights for the foreseeable future. But, there are chocolate eggs and hot cross buns just around the corner, a lovely long weekend and the promise of an afternoon nap (or two!), fresh mornings and cooler, autumnal days and promising work opportunities awaiting my attention.
On the Easter long weekend nine years ago we inspected a house that we had found in the local paper. We ended up living there for seven-and-a-half years.
I’ll happily forgo the eggs this year, so long as I can have a nest to feather.