We have a maple tree in our backyard that is one of my favourite living things. It grows just next to our back deck, framing my view of our garden when I sit at our kitchen table, writing. Exactly where I’m sitting right now, actually.
Moving house is nothing like a holiday.Credit: ISTOCK
When we moved into our home, 12 years ago, the maple was half the size. Now it’s taller than our roof. Its branches reach over our lawn, giant arms that feel like they’re saying to the world, “Back off, these humans are mine.”
I have felt nurtured by this tree. Shaded in summer by its lush green canopy. Guided through the seasons by the clever going and coming of its leaves: when they fall in autumn, an extra doona goes on the bed; when they sprout in spring, the winter coats go to the dry cleaner. Ever present, it’s like a member of the family. The strong silent one that never complains or make any mess, which puts it just below the dog in order of love.
It’s also the reason you might find me spontaneously weeping while doing the dishes, because we have just sold our house. And so, of course, we’ll be leaving our maple behind.
To be clear, I’m not sad about selling the house – that is very exciting. Yes, it has been a very big and hard decision to move on from the home we love. But we’re ready to create a new home and lifestyle that more befit a 14-year-old and the young adult she’s not far off becoming. It’s terrifying to think that in only four years she’ll be driving and travelling and using our house like a hotel. But it’s also exciting, and a privilege, to be intentionally designing our life to best support her.
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But change is really hard. You can’t have new beginnings without endings, and I’m really bad at goodbyes. Turns out you can be excited and sad at the same time. And also utterly exhausted. Whoever said a change is as good as a holiday has never sold a house. Unless they meant the road trip we took to Canberra in 1986: eight hours of chronic carsickness in a stiflingly hot Corolla, with a stopover in Gundagai because the head gasket blew, is fairly comparable to putting a house up for sale.
The packing up of endless cupboards after 12 years. The scrubbing of every surface, like I was destroying evidence. Removing your own shamefully lived-on furniture for a fancier rented couch that no one is allowed to sit on.
And while I support eradicating teenager smells and Labrador hair, I’m not sure an artfully arranged throw on a bed laden with perfectly plumped pillows sells the best features of my – or anyone’s – home.
