Relocating cities and buying our first home all at once has been more difficult than I imagined. Everything is different - from where to buy the milk or charge my toothbrush, to the unfamiliar taste of the water and the peculiarities of Northern terraced house staircases (they’re unfathomably steep and I basically crawled up them the first week). I keep trying to open the fridge door on the wrong side and using the wrong key to enter the house - and just now something beeped twice in the kitchen and I haven’t the foggiest what it is.
Everything feels clunky and I find myself clutching at old habits, desperate to find something recognisably predictable amidst the confusion of unfamiliarity. At least the way I make my coffee is the same. Plus we have an Aldi round the corner so we can resume old shopping habits, but still, their shopping aisles are organised differently so our formerly efficient single-lap-in-out-jobby has turned into a maze of zig-zags with double-backs and a great deal of crashing into other people’s trolleys as we travel against the flow to find that specific pack of chocolate biscuits. And we still don’t have anywhere for our shoes that stops me tripping over them.
Yet even hearing those thoughts ricochet about in my noggin makes me want to butt my head against the wall for whining about such trivialities. It feels like an insult to those suffering worse tragedies across the world. I thought I was more resilient than this, I thought I was more capable. But I guess that’s just what happens when the pandemic transforms you -permanently- into an anxious mess of a person and then you decide to uproot your life, twice.
Despite the innumerable reasons we had to want to move here, and the intrinsic privilege that allowed us to do so, I still spent the first few weeks doubting every single decision we made, frantically searching for lost receipts so I could study the returns policy for every item we bought. First it was the size of the fridge, then it was the colour we painted the living room, then the toilet roll holder, then the toilet brush, then the sideboard we got off freecycle (what even is a sideboard?), then it was the kettle and then I thought I might as well throw out my partner because I was becoming more and more insufferable each day as I became less and less well slept because I was waking up every night thinking about assembling furniture. I chastised myself for becoming one of those people who scrutinised inconsequential decisions with a disproportionate magnitude of energy.
But after one month of being here, I can now see that things will begin to settle. The reasons we moved here are beginning to show glimmers of themselves, and the house is gradually becoming less empty. Every week we manage to pick up more furniture, and each new piece brings a whole slew of life with it; a new range of functions unlocked in each room with every addition. The sofa brought a place to lounge, the chest of drawers brought an end to the Floordrobe, the bookcase allowed us to finally unpack and welcome our most coveted books to our new home, and the fridge gave us… well, cold food.
Despite not enjoying where we used to live, it still feels hard to welcome in a new life. I keep comparing it to a breakup in a relationship you outgrew: it wasn’t right, but at least it was familiar and predictable. In this new place, I feel like I have no idea who I’m living with. One day she’s draughty and cold, the next you find a light switch to the light you thought was a goner. Such are the highs and lows of home ownership. But day by day, I feel like I’m getting to know her quirks and foibles.
As someone whose day job involves paying attention to light, there’s one thing no estate agent can tell you: how will the light fall at 2pm on a cloudy day in March in the attic room? With a south-eastern facing garden, I knew we’d get some good light coming into the house. But how exactly would it look and where would it fall? Only time would tell. Having photographed many of my nearest and dearest, I can recall in my head exactly how the light falls across their features. Touch is one of my love languages, and my friends will tell you that I’ll squeeze their faces with glee after time apart. But in the absence of a good face squeeze, photos of their faces will do me just as well. A necessary and important part of the development of my bond with people is to photograph them, to familiarise myself with the contours and mapping of their facial features is to know them.
By that measure, this house remains unknown to me. I’m yet to discover its curvatures and shape formed by the light of a winter morning, the light of midday in spring, a shepherd’s delight sunset, the moonlight on a clear night, a long summer’s evening light. Part of me wants to fasttrack it all, to fill the house tomorrow with everything we’ll end up acquiring, to have a home for all our bits and bobs, to clear away all the knick-knacks and just have a place for our goddamn shoes so I stop tripping over them. But all my life I dreamed of owning a home, why am I so eager to fast-forward now it’s here?
This morning I was filled with rage. A frustration brewed in the whole universe being just a bit much, supplemented with a healthy dose of premenstrual angst. My Moonology calendar told me to “breathe in deeply a few times and place your hands on your heart.” This did not help. Naturally, I blamed it all on Dan and stormed out the house before returning promptly in a fit of laughter because the car wouldn’t start. I was destined to face the resentment head on.
By lunchtime, the anger had subsided and melancholy replaced it instead. Fated to the inevitable, I resigned myself to the only way to build a home and life in a new city: gradually. Then the clouds thinned and I noticed the good light falling softly at 2pm in the attic room. As all melancholic photographers do, I threw a vintage lens on my camera and snapped a few self-portraits. It really was good light. I made Dan begrudgingly sit for a few frames too. Then I packed the camera (and melancholy) away, and a certain lightness returned to my being.
In Armenian, good morning translates literally to “good light”. A way to beckon in a new day and welcome its fresh light.
PS. You might’ve noticed I renamed my Substack. I can’t promise I won’t change it again, but for now Parallel Lines feels wider encompassing to cover most things I plan to write about. If you made it this far, thanks!
Love the reflection through the Armenian language and the focus on all kinds of light added such lovely texture to the piece 🌞