A history of houses

Looking back I have moved more than the average person. I moved with my parents. I moved with my mother and sister after my parents split. I moved alone, when my mother found a new love. I moved with my (now ex-)boyfriend. I moved alone, again, after splitting up. I moved with my family.

I moved from a flat to a house when my sister hadn’t been born yet. I moved from that house to a two bedroom apartment above my mothers’ workplace. I moved into a room in the home of a kind teacher who let me stay with her for my senior year of high school. I moved from a room to a studio. From a studio to an appartement to a brownstone, back to one of many Amsterdam apartments.

Sometimes the reasons for moving weren’t that great. My parents divorcing, my mother moving to the other side of the country, my boyfriend of twelve years and me splitting up. Sometimes the reasons were very good. My very own first studio when starting University in Amsterdam, our family growing. But no matter the reason, I always found something I needed in the new house.

For example, even though the reason was bad, the house we lived in after my parents had split, was fantastic. It was exciting to live in a nice village instead of a suburb, in a 1910’s brownstone in stead of a 1970’s terraced house. Even though my parents split amicably, I felt relieved having moved away from the strain of their failing marriage. I remember those two years as very happy years, perhaps the happiest of my childhood. Our house was like a refuge to me, a place where I could always come back home to, after school, my side job, a party, my first heartbreak.

Another time I had to leave a great brownstone in the city center behind to a love lost. At 34 my boyfriend and I didn’t start a family, as we set out to do. Instead, we broke up. I put our house up for sale and moved back to the capital ahead of selling, moving into another rental with a view of the river IJ. As my mother and I finished cleaning the apartment before I moved in, I cried. Not because I found myself alone and miserable, but because I was so happy to have made this decision.

A family history

Do I regret any of the houses or moves that I made? I honestly can’t say so. All of the houses I’ve lived in have either been a blessing or a lesson. A tranquil family live with my mother and sister after my parents divorcing, a possibility to stay in my known surroundings to finish high school, a peace of mind after breaking up a long relationship. And eventually also a chance to start again.

As I mentioned, my sister’s history is very similar. Moving because of her work, quitting her job, deciding to start her own consultancy and then also moving back to the capital, and never did she complain, she just made a different choice whenever she wasn’t happy. As I was contemplating both of our histories of moving house, I suddenly became aware that starting over again is a family thing. My grandmother was born in the Dutch Indies, known as Indonesia since its independence in 1948. She was the daughter of a planter and spent her entire youth in the tropics. She spend the war in a Japanese camp in Java. Having survived alongside her sister, in 1954 my grandmother moved back with her two eldest sons after which, in 1956 my mother became the first family member to be born in the Netherlands in 200 years. One cannot say that my grandmother always handled things so well. She never really got over her war history. But she did start over in the Netherlands and she did so again when my grandfather (who definitely wasn’t meant for married life) moved out to live with his fourth wife.

My mother also dealt with her fair share of having to start over as my own story implicitly indicates. And so my sister and I, we just had one example only: that moving and having to start over again is simply part of life and you deal with it to the best of your ability. It doesn’t mean that everything will always be fine and it doesn’t mean that such a decision will one day be easy. But it’s simply not that difficult either.

The spring is new…

My first boss once told me: the good part about making a decision, is that one simply has to live with the consequences. And I strongly feel the same thing goes for moving house. The good part about moving, is that one simply has to make the new house their home. Easier said than done, though. Although I’ve moved house in every season, every year come spring, I start to feel restless. I start looking for a new home every time the first rays of sunlight show themselves in March or April. I look for things to change. My job, my clothes, my furniture, you name it.

This year I felt held back though. I looked at my sister with a bit of envy, as she is moving to a brand-new adventure once again, but I couldn’t really bring myself to do it again, to go over the hassle of having to pack up. For the first time ever, I could relate to all of the people I have helped in my professional career. And I realized it’s because I now have what I was always looking for: a family house to come home to. Yes, it lacks a bigger bedroom for my youngest daughter. It is also in need of a study. We could do with a bigger bathroom too. Some more outside space. But I so like coming home to our house in the city.

…and new the sound it brings

So I did make new plans. Plans to do up our living room, which in Feng Shui tradition carries the energy of spring and of new beginnings and family. Plans for our girls to go and sleep in the bigger bedroom together, so we can have the small bedroom as a sort of study. And I finally started my new venture, to which you now bear witness.

Herman Gorter, the poet from whom I lent the title of this blog, had high expectations for his poem. He wrote about May, the month as if she were a person. He wanted the poem he wrote to be entirely new, but at the same time reminiscent of what had been before. The same way that spring comes and goes every year, relying on what has grown before, but also bringing new blossoms, fruits and so on. We can start over, but at the same time we are part of a bigger picture.

I wondered what bigger picture I want myself and my family to be part of. Do I want to put them through the same that I’ve been through before? Starting over again and again? To a certain extent, there is no other option, since as a family with mixed nationalities we will always be living in between. In between countries and houses that we call our own. But I also want to pass on the certainty of things remaining the same. The seasons and the traditions that come with it, their family they can always come back to. Their home. Our home.

I am happy to start new traditions with them. In my opinion the only way to enjoy Spring to its fullest is by going out. And so, with a little bit of hesitance, we did. As my girls and I went out for our first spring outing of the year, we took to the dunes in the Northwest part of the Netherlands. Our beautiful nature reserve that protects us from the force of the water overflowing at spring tide, which at the same time is home to one of prettiest sites that nature has to offer. I love the shy laughter of my girls as they somewhat anxiously took off their shoes and stepped barefoot onto the path to be able to feel spring entering their lives once again. My oldest daughter couldn’t believe that we were actually allowed to walk. Barefoot. Outside! My youngest showed more hesitation and stayed close to me. It doesn’t matter, it’s their new beginning this year and it’s up to them to experience it their way. The anticipation of what was coming, preparing for the trip ahead, not knowing exactly where it would lead them. Going there by car, getting out and being able to step out barefoot, leaving behind winter that lasted all too long this year. Going back, falling asleep of being tired of excitement more than anything else, I hope they dream of the experience of new beginnings and how amazing these can be.

I’ve borrowed the title of this blog from May. An epic poem about youth by Herman Gorter (1889), translated into English by M. Kruijff (2020), Arimei Books.