So we’re going, and as with any big decision it seems that the most overwhelming aspect is not the looming of the event itself but the minutiae of preparing.
What do we take, what do we leave, when do we leave, who do I leave my fledgling lemon trees to – these questions keep overwhelming the importance of the move itself. We’ve started sorting what we’ll take and have gone so far as to arrange for the transport of what we’re taking by shipping freight and started to throw out or donate what we don’t need. Casual glances around the house while sipping tea or picking a book to read become considerations of weight and packaging, mentally packing my teapots with the handmade pottery, or browsing through friends to find someone who could adopt one of them.
It’s a strange thought that in 2 months and a day there will be no trace of us having been here, aside from memories and those things of ours that we leave with friends. This more or less sums up my feelings about this at the moment.
I have also started to get teary at landscapes. While on the bus home yesterday I looked out of the window at the sudden, sheer granite faces that loom over the road, moss covered and only just shedding the frozen curtains of water and melting snow. On their peaks stood pines and leafless birches, around their feet the bushes and shrubs that in a few months will be carrying berries. Then we pass a lake, a coral pink sunset and a severe line of pines reflected on its surface, rippling from the lines being cast out by a group of old folk getting in some fishing before the sun disappears.
Growing up in the bush I used to love visits to a nearby pine plantation, where I’d pretend I was in the forests from the fairy tales, where wolves, hobbits, dragons, elves and adventurers lived. I do love the Australian bush, wild, rough and with its own beauty, but some part of my heart lives in the secret corners and high reaches of northern forests. And I suppose that’s one thing at least that I’ll leave behind when we go.