Sometimes, when I think about leaving London, two years ago last week, to start my new life in Sweden, I remember the strangest details. It’s not always the plane and the boxes, or not being able to hug my sister goodbye as we dropped our cat off at her place. Sometimes, I think of things mislaid or wasted: the unopened tub of Ben & Jerry’s we had no choice but to throw away the night before the move; the perfectly functional furniture we had to pay to have scrapped once donation was no longer a safe option; the box of books we left on the landing, hoping the landlord would drop them at the charity shop, which turned up with the rest of our belongings two weeks later. In that place between homes, a catalogue of items were lost, destroyed or held onto, while we tried to make space for other things.
I have always been scared of change. I have clung to familiar places; carving out a home that would keep me safe from the big, bad unknown. But when I finally decided to push myself out of that pattern, to move somewhere different in the extreme, I knew I wanted to embrace the opportunity to see what the experience brought out in me, to meet a new version of myself. March has long been a transitional time for me. It was around this time some years ago that I switched jobs, moved house and waved my sister off on her travels, all within the same anxiety-ridden few weeks. Then, of course, there was this move, unforgettable because of the unprecedented (sorry) circumstances under which it took place. While I was flicking through my journal, I also saw that March 24th 2021–a year and one day since we arrived in Sweden–was the date I submitted my short story collection proposal to Dear Damsels. I wrote, ‘I sent the submission yesterday, which is scary!’ New jobs, new homes, new creative projects: March is a time not only of change but of new beginnings.
There’s the coming of spring, too, which I’m noticing more closely than ever before. The other day, while we drove into town to buy ingredients for game-night tacos, I looked out at the parcels of land that have finally been exposed by the melting snow. Spring here starts off dull and muddy; it can be hard to imagine life reviving the stick-like trees and shrubs, or the waterlogged grass becoming luscious and full once again. ‘It looks so good,’ I said, because I could see last year’s autumn leaves nourishing the earth; a sole lapwing standing in the waking field, having returned from winter somewhere warmer. I can see the land’s potential, the way it’s going to burst into life any moment, whether or not any of us are ready. In picking up on these details, I’m mapping the rhythms of a home that, in many ways, still feels unknown to me.
How long does it take to settle in? It’s hard to believe, but when we first got here I sincerely thought we could power through all our planned home improvements and have everything done within a month. I’ve since learned that building a home takes much longer. That boxes can sit unpacked for several years; that DIY projects can loom and recede, put off until another time, no longer deemed urgent. During this never-ending global health crisis, I’ve been slow to venture out: making small talk with neighbours at a safe distance outside, resisting professional haircuts in favour of my husband’s very commendable efforts. Again, I am clinging to familiarity, carving out a space where I can feel safe from, among other things: speaking in bad Swedish, my lack of drivers licence putting limits on my independent freedom, getting sick in a country whose pandemic approach differs greatly (for better and worse) than the home I came from. But I have dared to dream of belonging. The submission I was almost too scared to send turned into my debut collection of short stories. I established a creative practice that exists only because I am here. I wrote myself into this place, and wrote it into me. I’ve started going to yoga–and what else bonds you to somewhere than crying on your mat during a particularly humbling hip opener?
The speed at which a place becomes home can vary from person to person. I’ve learned to make home in small spaces: in the sofa (now happily propping up my mum and her two kitties) that saw me through those tumultuous few weeks in London a few years back; the bedside table by the bed we first slept in here, kindly left behind by the previous owners. Home is a sly, shifting thing, cement in some places and sand in others. But I have learned to also find it in myself, in that new version of myself I’d hoped to meet, who started a vegetable garden all by herself, painted the kitchen single handedly, got to know the rhythm of a house loved by so many others before her. I’m still settling in, and probably will be for a long time to come, but in that place between, there it is: home.
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