Butterflies

Yesterday I gave a month’s notice on my flat – I am now officially moving, and, unsurprisingly, it’s all I can think about. On the 12th I’ll be heading back to Bath/Bristol to find a new home; before and after then I have several photo shoots booked, photos to edit, i need to pack (for real, not just clearing out), book a man with a van, and generally disentangle myself from this town. There are parts of the coast i want to visit with my Holga before i go, and a can of pomegranate red paint I want to buy, in readiness for the nesting. I found myself lingering over interior design magazines last night; the 70s sideboard i’m inheriting from my mother is going to look great with a mishmash of framed photos and artwork hanging above it.

Every night i dream about the move, and it is always a complete disaster. He’s been making guest appearances in many of the dreams; i don’t feel guilty about moving forward with my life, but i am hyper-aware of how significant it all is. And in a way, i’d rather it wasn’t significant at all – i’d rather just pack up my diaries and cameras and get on a bus and pitch up a tent down the road. I’d rather slope out under the cover of darkness and send postcards home when i get the chance. If i’m completely honest, i’d rather be moving to a place where i know a few souls already, but you know what? That’s not what’s happening and i am trusting that all is well, that all is unfolding as it should.

I trust myself, and that is the most important thing, i think. I trust myself to make the right choices, even when they scare the crap out of me.