Morocco, Part 2: Home Appeal

Who would have thought that moving to Morocco would arouse a sort of grief?

But it has – a strong and foolish grief that has me paralyzed with inactivity. I call it house grief. And I don’t mean that I’m feeling inconvenienced or annoyed (as in, “This broken zipper is causing me grief”); no, I’m embarrassed to say I am grieving over a carefully constructed pile of bricks.

608 Charlotte Street has been my home for almost eight years now. When I moved here, it was to escape a very unhappy home, full of traumas and secrets and helplessness. There is no grief attached to that house, except the grieving that I did within its walls.

My house on Charlotte Street is not that kind of house. It is a healing house. It is full of sunshine and character. Even the walls are sunny, deliberately painted so in an act of cheerful defiance. I know every corner of this house, and every corner welcomes me. The moment I walked in, I knew that it was mine.

The first spring I was here, I dug a series of trenches in my back yard, and filled them with asparagus roots (asparagus being my favourite vegetable, in case you didn’t know – although I am developing a curious fondness for okra). It was a little bit like a betrothal. Knowing that it takes three years to properly establish an asparagus bed, I pledged to remain on Charlotte Street for at least that long. I was not going anywhere until my asparagus released me.

The asparagus has, largely, been a disappointment. Half the stalks never came up, despite my hours in the trenches, trying to woo them to the surface with soil and incantations. A few years later, the braver of the stalks emerged, only to be promptly devoured by asparagus beetles. This made for some nifty science lesson, but did little for my appetite. Every year I waited for that bountiful harvest, and every year, I pledged to give it one more season.

Last spring, for the first time, I actually had enough stalks come up that I could pick a few, put them on a plate, and eat them.  It wasn’t the feast I’d envisioned, but I had hope. “Next year,” I thought, “is going to be the year.”

Did you notice that it’s been a particularly grueling winter here in Peterborough? Has your composter been as inaccessible as mine, due to the barbaric quantities of snow in the back yard? Did you notice that, just today, the snow was (mostly) gone, and the grass, though brown and icky, was traversable at last? Did you spontaneously decide that today was going to be the day to feed your compost bin?

I did. I hauled out a winter’s worth of food scraps, and I checked out all my favourite garden spots. Strawberries. Raspberries. Kale. Asparagus. Tomatoes. Carrots. Lilacs. Bumblebees. Butterflies. Just a few short months, and I’ll be—

GONE.

Oh, it hurt my heart to hear that word inside my head. This little place is my private paradise – every inch of it, from the morning glories on the trellis to the roses on my mantle. I cared for its roof and its foundations; I tilled the soil and fixed the plumbing. I decided exactly how I wanted this place of mine to cradle me, and it did. You can see the worn spot on the couch, where I sit right now under my fuzzy blanket, writing stories about my life. You can see the music studio that I built, and the lawmower I purchased through the sale of my childhood toys. I love – love – this house. I love who I am here, and who I have become.How can I possibly leave? And who will love my house while I am gone?

But leave I must! Remember? I am moving to Morocco. The papers are signed. The deal is done. I’m already halfway there, surrounded by my pile of travel books.

And going to one place requires leaving another. Of course I knew this all along. I thought it through. I weighed the pros and cons. But today… Today I talked to my financial guy on the phone, and he said, “When are you moving? July? You need to advertise that house. Today.”

Okay, house. I will leave you, if you promise to find tenants who will be good to you. I don’t want to sell you, house. Please, find renters who want you, just the way you are. Look after them, as you look after me.

It’s a little act of faith, you see – reaching out to a distant paradise while this one’s still in hand, knowing I must drop the one in order to embrace the other.

But it’s not impossible. After all, it was an act of faith to plant those first asparagus roots, which looked so dry and dead as I laid them in the earth seven years ago. It was an act of faith to wait, and hope, and will them to grow, spring after spring. And it is an act of faith today to step into my soggy garden, with those roots still sleeping far below the surface, and say, “This is going to be the year.”

This is my year. I know it is. But I need a little help from the universe to set my year in motion. I need renters – good renters, who can pay what I need to keep up with the costs, and who will respect this space that has been so kind to me.

It is a wonderful spot. You will love it – I promise. But I need your names, and soon, so I can start to say my sad good-bye.