(Aerial drone shot of Sejarah)
I moved house last weekend, with August 11th being my last night in our lovely home built in 2011, and now destined to be demolished by new owners. What a massive task it was to pack and to clear out the house after almost 12 years of living in it with children, and all that that involves. Packing and clearing for the move took many days, and my helper and I, assisted by my two sons worked hard to get as much done before movers came in.
Anxious to recycle what I could, I managed to sell some items of furniture, and give away plenty more to workers next door, and to donate several boxes of books. Still, I was overwhelmed by the quantity of items that needed a decision... even a simple glass, a spoon, a piece of paper, an item of clothing... every little thing required a decision. Keep it, put in storage, or take with me? Dispose, give away, or trash it? By the time I'd looked through most of the stuff I was so deeply exhausted from the sheer magnitude of the task that I gave up on old store rooms and decided that things I hadn't seen or used or needed in a few years could safely go.
Physical, mental and emotional exhaustion set in. My left foot, in which I broke 5 bones last year, swelled and got bruised as I walked up and down multiple flights of stairs, for several hours everyday. My guts struggled to stay on an even keel with the stress and anxiety as I woke up at 4-5 am everyday in a panic, knowing that departure day drew closer, and there was just so much to be done. I was concerned that the Crohn's might flare up, and grateful that I was able to eat and keep going. Some days I simply broke down, feeling so utterly alone and facing a hugely daunting task.
Emotionally and psychologically I knew I was leaving a huge part of my past behind, and all that that entailed. Many happy memories, but also many sad ones. It was here that my marriage ended, and that I found myself alone with my four lovely children, struggling to manage, trying not to cry myself to sleep every night, trying to rebuild myself and my life back up, and holding up the fort for my kids. Their own happiness and healing depended on mine, and so it was imperative that I find my way forward quickly. I stumbled along, determined to keep moving forward despite setbacks with my health, and struggling with my emotions, PTSD, and grief.
The house, affectionately known as Sejarah after the road it's on, became a blessing as it kept the kids and me together, and we were especially grateful to have her through Covid. Sadly though, it was always a reminder to me of my own personal loss no matter how hard I tried to view being there as a blessing. For me, the sorrow and grief of broken promises, crushed dreams, and utter heartbreak hung like a pall over the house as time went on, leaving me feeling trapped there. When would I move on in life, and leave the past, so reflected in the house, behind? When would my role as caretaker of the huge house and the kids allow me to really care for myself without the weight of worry I daily found upon my shoulders?
With the move, that time had finally come, and yet I was taken aback by the emotions I felt, and the tears I shed as I did the final inspection of the empty house for handover to the new owners. I was glad, though, that I felt these emotions of sorrow, and shed tears of grief, because to me it meant that I had lived authentically, that I did have dreams, promises and hopes at one point in my life, that I had loved deeply once, and lived through difficulty and heartbreak, emerging successfully on the other side. I was grateful to have the time to authentically grieve and say goodbye, and to let go of the past in the beautiful house that had never really felt like my own home because of my grief. As I said goodbye, I realised that she had been my home, despite all the pain and hurt that I had endured.
Sejarah was a house and a home that opened her doors and heart to welcome many, and it is the memory of many happy meals, gatherings, parties, and get togethers with family and friends that I shall always cherish. She was beautiful, open, spacious, airy, brightly lit, surrounded by greenery and a haven for animals like birds, squirrels, snakes, spiders, and an occasional civet cat. We kept fish in the pond, and ended up feeding the predatory birds who picked them off from time to time. Our love for water meant we had a pool that was especially handy when the kids' friends came by, and the inviting water was an integral part of the landscaped surrounds. Everyone who came to the house felt a sense of peace when they entered, and it was indeed a serene spot, an oasis of sorts in a busy city.
My favourite part of the house ended up being the kids' "entertainment" room on the 3rd floor that I converted into my office once the kids no longer used it. Here, I sat for hours, enjoying the roof top garden, feeding and observing animals, and working online and in person with clients whilst enjoying the greenery and the flowers in bloom. It was a calm and safe space, perfect for counselling work, and a place where some of my most meaningful breakthroughs occurred with grieving clients. It was a very special and healing place, and I had many lovely tea sessions there with friends too, nibbling tim sum and sipping masala tea while opening our hearts to each other.
In my last 30 minutes at the house on the 14th, I tried to capture the house in the best lighting on an overcast evening, and with the most artistic of shots. As I walked about, I was struck by the emptiness all around me. Where once there had been people, things, furniture, noise, clutter, clothing, beds, and all sorts of signs of occupancy and life, there was now nothing. Simply nothing but an empty shell and total silence. I was struck by the beauty of the house, in all her bare boned state. I have thought about that beauty, and it has taught me a thing or two.
We are afraid to have our masks stripped away, fearful of being authentic and genuine, worried we might be unloved and rejected if people saw us as we truly are... bare and empty. That's what we are, at the very core of ourselves, we're bare and empty. We spend years trying to be accepted and loved while we pile on the layers so as to appear to be something more than we are, covering up our nakedness, and unable to recognise the same state in others. One associates "bare" and "empty" with possibly negative connotations, and yet as I stood in the house and looked around me, I was taken in by the simplicity and beauty of what remained.
This was who she really was, at her heart, at the core of herself. How we might remember her, filled with our things, belongings, noise and selves was what we chose to make of her, how we used her, how we lived in, and through her. Beneath and beyond all that superimposed liveliness and lived-ness was her solid, dignified, bare boned beautiful structure, and in those last moments when I glimpsed her, and admired her, took photos for the kids, and bid her farewell, I realised that I did truly love her, and I was grateful for everything she had been, every blessing she had given, and how much we had all enjoyed her in our own way. I was sad to leave her, my home.
Farewell, Sejarah, and thank you for the years we spent under your roof, and the shelter you gave us, and for looking over us. I said goodbye to the tembusu tree, planted by my late father in law when we began construction of the house in 2010 and bid him farewell too, while acknowledging that he would always live on in our hearts wherever we went. A house is a house, but for us Sejarah was a home, not only because we made her ours, but I think in some strange way, we were hers also. She, too, will endure in our hearts wherever we go. I am glad I will not have to see her demolished, but perhaps it's for the best that she goes, knowing that she was perfect as she was, and truly only ever ours. 💗
Thanks for reading,
Pav
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