Playing house in fairyland

Slowly we emerge on the other side of moving. It feels that. An emergence from the old into the new; a relocation 450 kilometres from the city to a small rural block amid the forests of the south coast. The first night in our new place I lay in bed in the dark listening to unfamiliar sounds, the wind in the trees, leaves hitting the roof, a mopoke calling, different frog calls, and wondered what on earth we had done. And why. But slowly our things emerge from boxes and fill this new-to-us dwelling.

I began by unpacking in the kitchen, box after box of plates and bowls and pans and baking stuff. I was daunted by the fullness of the boxes and the emptiness of the cupboards, stymied with indecision about what to put where. About how to start. Glasses? Where should they go? What about my spices, could I recreate my much loved spice drawer?

I looked out the window at the beauty we have come to live amongst, took a breath and let it all go, reminded myself that there was no right answer, that I could switch and move things as much as I liked. It didn’t have to be done in a particular way or by a particular time. Then it became a joy. Lining up the cups in the drawer. Knocking the dividers out of a cutlery drawer and carefully arranging my spice jars in alphabetical order. Placing things on the pantry shelves in logical groups. Playing house in fairyland.

A few days after arriving, we found a walk trail around the local area; a local walk straight out our front gate and through the forest. It has a killer hill. I arrive at the top gasping for breath, quads and glutes burning. Further along, when the trail begins descending, all I can think is what goes down must come up again. Sure enough, there is another uphill section. It is a longer incline but is less steep, so very much easier. I measure this new walk on my phone and discover it is not much different to the circuit around the lake I did so many times at our old house, but it’s so much harder. The hills make it so. Despite the cool morning air, I am dripping sweat by the time I get home. But I love this new walk. We see fairy wrens and kangaroos along the way but hardly any people.

And I realise I have thought it and written it without realising the implication – ‘by the time I get home’ – I am already calling this place home. Sinking into its embrace despite the upheaval that rocks me.

From here where I sit in my new (almost unpacked) office, I can hear the fountain running in the fish pond and I can see the bridge over the creek that we cross when we come and go. If I’m honest, the bridge is one of the things that attracted me to this place. The bridge and the chook house and the northern light that floods the living areas. But it is the quiet that is seeping into me.

In the mornings, after walking, I sit outside to drink my first cup of tea for the day. As has long been my custom, I usually do so with notebook and pencil in hand and let thoughts flow into words on paper. But I find they don’t flow. The words dissipate. I sit and stare at the trees, tall karris stretching tens of metres up to the sky. A kite – I think it’s a whistling kite but aren’t certain – glides among the tree tips and sometimes lands on a high branch, sometimes soars high into the open sky. I watch it. I watch the other birds: the parrots’ dipping flight as they streak across the open ground, calling to each other. The fairy wrens and fantails as they flit across the grass. The swallows as they dip and dive, catching insects on the wing. There are dragonflies and butterflies by the dozens. Already, in my mind, I am calling this place Dragonfly Valley. They hang in the air in droves. I soak it all in, but my pencil remains unmoving in my hand. The thoughts are ephemeral, uncatchable. It doesn’t matter. I let it go. Let go of the drive to be productive. Embrace the joy of being. Of watching. Allowing myself to be at play in fairyland.

Thanks for reading,

Jill