I spent the first 12 years of my life living in Sydney. In the city. Glebe to be precise. We were all pretty independent kids, catching buses and trains from a pretty early age. Walking through city streets to get to corner shops, parks or friends houses. By the time we were leaving the city, I was a city person through and through.
I knew the sights, smells and sounds of the city like the back of my hand. I still do!We moved out of the city and since then I have lived in a few different places but have never been far from the hustle and bustle and always made time to come and get my city fix. When we had children, I wanted them to experience the city too. So we spent many weekends coming into the city soaking up its culture, sounds, sights, knowledge, people and vibrance.
I know people who were raised in the city, who just loved getting away from it. But that wasn’t the case for me.
For me, those first 12 years imprinted city life onto my soul. My love for the city was hardwired. It was done.
And there has never been an undoing.
The only reason I never moved back to the city was that living there permanently wasn’t good for my health — my asthma and allergies.
Sooo life goes on. Things change. Decisions are made. People move. We move.
Our hearts are pulled toward the polar opposite of our previous city life.
We have the epiphany. We want a country life!
We make a plan. A fabulous plan to make our tree change.
We find a property. Consider employment. Think about the children. Plan, plan, plan.
And it all seems so perfect. The kids will get a country life, they’ll have treehouses and tree swings and animals to frolick with and they’ll run wild through the meadows in floral handsewn dresses and pick flowers and be merrier than we ever could have imagined.
We will have animals that are so full of personality that it makes it simply agonising to say goodbye. We will build our new earthhouse with spectacular views and live a peaceful, stress free, hippie-farming sort of life.
That’s how the story was supposed to be written.
But the story didn’t go exactly as planned. Our story is of us being blind sided by our tree change.
It has taken me a little longer to adjust to country living than I had hoped. 11-ish years, actually. 11-ish years to realise that I was never going to become a farm girl. I still try to learn the country ropes but I still see things through VERY city-girl eyes.
I suppose that’s part of why, during those desperate times a few years ago, I chose ballet as my relief. I was seeking something to find happiness in, as everything was so bleak at that time, but looking around me then, I couldn’t find anything that felt like home. It all still felt so foreign to me then, like I was house sitting someone else’s life.
Things have definitely changed since then and now, ballet is slipping its way back into my life.
The house sitting thing from above really got me. I realised how scary that is, the possibility that I was just house sitting in someone else’s life’s? Holy crap, how terrifying is that?!
Well it’s terrifying for me. I don’t want to reach the end of my life and look back only to realise that I didn’t own my life, that I just house sat someone else’s.
With this in mind I moved forward, and continue to move forward, always reminding myself that I own my life and asking “What do I want to do with it?”
So that’s my message today….
Don’t house sit someone else’s life.
Your life. Your canvas. Paint it however you like.
P.S: The first animals we got on our property were six chickens. We adored those girls. Until we found out they were guys.
We had six roosters.
They weren’t peaceful or stress free. And we weren’t sad to see them go.