Too many trinkets...
Considering the home that comes with my house.
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This is a picture of my home in Cape Town, South Africa. I’m tempted to say that it’s the only home I’ve ever known, but that statement is probably both untrue and a touch overdramatic. It is, however, the only house I’ve lived in. My parents still live here and for the moment, so do I.
My parents bought the property in the first half of 1998 and by August the house was completed. This house and a smattering of others sat amidst farmland, the roads were largely empty and many of our neighbours were pigeons or horses. I was born a year later. The wall in my photograph forms part of the study, where I now sit and write, but it was originally my nursery. The room was emptier, then. On a solitary shelf sat a pile of nappies (or diapers, if you prefer), some of my soft toys and a collection of books that would be read out to me at bedtime. There was a cot in one corner of the room, though I was far too enamoured with my parents to make much use of it. A mural of cartoon animals including a toucan wearing sunglasses was painted on one wall. The room has collected some character since then; it’s used primarily as a workspace now, but there are remnants of childhood here. Behind the door is an old, partially torn measurement chart, on it are heights and dates, chronicling my growth. I am a bit taller than the chart, so the door has a few dates and lines on it, too. The mural has been replaced by a sort of grown up lilac. Two corkboards hang on opposite walls, one is my mom’s vision board displaying markers of encouragement and accomplishment. The other is a collection of my dad’s memories: a photo of my mom and I, taken long ago; postcards sent by friends, aged by sunlight; some foreign coasters and bottle caps. A floor to ceiling bookshelf stands in one corner, totally overfilled. Alongside books, it holds printers, in-trays, files, the random cables and doodads that we can’t identify but refuse to bin. A big desk sits where my crib used to. On it is a computer monitor, a calendar and no fewer than fifty pens and pencils.
Every corner of this room is decorated with collections that span years and tell detailed and intimate stories about the people who live here. Even the stationary tells a story. My gran worked as a sales representative for a stationary company, so I’ve never bought a pen, it also means that we have far more than we need. There’s an old Tintin biscuit tin that sits on the study desk, in it are a handful of cheap ballpoint pens that I used to write my final exams in high school, a few fancy highlighters that I adored as a preteen, and hidden away in the desk drawer is a set of Staedtler colouring pencils that I was given at least fifteen years ago. Maybe my family holds onto too many trinkets, maybe we’ve just lived here for 25 years, but our whole house echos the study. Parts of the house are designed: the throw cushions match the decorative print on the couches, which also match the colour palette on the walls in the lounge. Chaos creeps into these designs, though. Our lounge set is complemented by an eclectic mix of side tables: one is an old military radio, another is a hundred year old music box, one is a mosaic topped wrought iron table. I used to see the contrast of design and chaos as dissonance, believing our home to be a mess. In actuality our home is quite tidy, but it is a library of our lives, cataloguing every stage of familial growth, every pique and trough of creative interest, every beloved memory and cherished friend. This, I am beginning to believe, is the heartbeat of a full and vibrant home.
I am about to embark on the adventure that befalls many young people: I must leave the home I once knew, and find my own one. The task of clearing my t-shirts from their shelves and weeping over which books to take with me comes as no surprise, but the strong emotions that accompany insignificant details, does. One evening, some time ago, I looked at my bookshelf. I have three floating shelves that sit in the corner of my room, neatly nestled beside my cupboard. My dad and I installed the shelves when I was in high school. I cut one length of pine to make three smaller pieces; I used a handsaw and the edges of the shelves are noticeably wonky. When I stained the raw pine a deep, mahogany colour I managed to get some on my stark white cupboard door. The purple-brown splodge is still there. I teared up looking at my messy workmanship. Soon this room won’t be mine anymore, and I will have a new room with a new bookshelf. My new bookshelf won’t be as messy, it probably won’t be handmade, there won’t be purple spots on the adjacent cupboard. Moving my things from one building to another is easy, but try as I might, I will have to leave some mess behind. My home lives in the wobbly shelves and the leftover box of pens and the faded postcards and the mural hidden behind the plain purple wall. I cannot bring my home with me. I will have to build a new one.
A bittersweet reality. My spirits begin to lift when I consider the mess I get to create next. I am excited to pick out new curtains that perfectly match my new walls, but I am also excited for the dent I put in the wall when I drop my desk, excited to find an antique (and likely fixer-upper) chair that I adore. Ahead of me is a blank canvas, at once intimidating and inviting. I think, perhaps, that my home lives in me. In love and boredom and the urge to embroider at midnight and the disappointment of missed opportunities and the comforting touch of family and the joy of having carrot cake for breakfast on a Saturday morning. I think that when the walls catch some of me, dogeared paperbacks and little photographs, they begin to change shape. When the paint and shelves mirror the story my life tells, a house begins to sound the heartbeat of a home. The house in that picture isn’t my only home. The campsite my parents and I visit in December every year, the backseat of my grandparents car, my best friend’s kitchen; each place has welcomed me, each has been a home at one time or another. But I always returned to this house. One day I won’t. And I think that day is someday soon.
Scary and exciting… If this journal resonated with you, please send it to someone you love.
Well written. I can feel the bittersweet feeling you are going through. Transition is part of our life journey and if we process it well we always grow.