When moving home is a muse.

We’re in the process of moving house, to a different area and potentially a very different life. My husband and I are both self-employed so for us, it’s not just moving house, but moving our business, our income stream, our entire lives. Added to that, we’ve lived in our current place for 19 years. 

I was talking to one of my sons about it the other day and I joked that the house would be crying when we left. Ever the pragmatist, he countered, “Don’t be ridiculous, mum: it’s just a house.”

Yet, it isn’t. It’s a home. A home that has ‘seen’ our courtship, our wedding, four children born, toilet trained and semi-raised. Our family has belonged here – and most of our extended family we shall leave behind – both blood relations and church family. This place has been our fortress for a long time.

For the last week or so I’ve been constantly on the cusp of crying, feeling full of unbidden, unwanted grief-fuelled emotions that rise to the surface at the slightest provocation. It’s hard to describe, this mixture of fear and anticipation. This knowledge that life will never be the same again, that I’m leaving something significant behind. I expect you’ve all been there before—I haven’t, really. At least, not since I left my parent’s home. This place represents my entire adulthood. 

Yesterday morning, as I was walking the kids to the local school, aware that this ten-year chapter of my life was also coming to a close, a poem sprang to mind. I haven’t written a poem for a while – I’m probably rusty – yet doesn’t poetry often allow the space for those emotions that struggle to find full sentences, that reside deep within, like spirit groanings and silent prayers? Like art, poetry opens up the other realm, the deeper reality of what is hidden.

So, without the head-space to think of something else to contribute to the blog today, I thought I’d share this. You’ll have to forgive the mash of mixed up metaphors. They aptly portray where my head and heart are currently placed. I’ll leave you to decipher it, but suffice to say, this move is not primarily a physical one.

Oh how to describe this grief – or define

A life, not alive, that’s taken from mine.

Substance of adulthood; fortress secure?

The waters they beckon, the boat feels more sure.

Waves crash around in the battle of faith, 

Arms clutching on to the helm of doubt...

“There’s the place he was born—and the spot where we lay!”

My gods, they’re all gone. Stripped away. 

He beckons, “Come now, a new life awaits.

The old holds pain too, like the crash of the waves. 

Will you take my hand? And leave it to be

Part of the past, not forgotten but seen

In the light of the garden I’ve promised you—Come.

Step into the springtime, the battle is won.”

So there you are, a piece of my heart. Did it touch yours? Has a move ever been your muse? 

Images from pexels.com

Natasha Woodcraft lives in Cambridgeshire with her husband, 4 sons, a spotty dog, an evil bunny and some much maligned fish. She believes stories have power to communicate deep truth and transform lives. Her published novels, The Wanderer Scorned & The Wanderer Reborn, explore God’s redemptive purposes for messy people by reimagining the tale of Cain & Abel. Also a songwriter, Natasha peppers her emotional prose with poetry and song.