Something Old, Something New

Today, I finished painting my new/old apartment. New because I am moving in to it with India this week. Old, because I used to live in it with my husband. I debated for months about whether or not it was a wise decision to move back in. There are a lot of painful memories in it for me. But there are also a lot of good memories. The good memories, the practicality of it being ridiculously cheap rent, close to the University, and the realization that I'm pretty damn tough made me decide to give it a shot.

It's not been so easy.

I thought if I painted the place it would feel new and fresh and make for a smoother transition. I imagined painting over all of the past and creating a safe home for India and myself.

Ukrainian women pioneers in Canada spent hours weaving beautiful, brightly coloured rugs and wall hangings, dyed with the local plants and berries available to them. They were complex pieces of art and took months to create. If a woman was fortunate to come close to the end of her weaving without having made any mistakes, she would deliberately weave an imperfection into the piece. The idea being that only God is perfect and it would be impertinent to imitate his power.

I thought of the Ukrainian pioneers as I painted this week. Not because my painting is in any need of self-inflicted imperfections but because of the idea of surrounding ourselves with present, physical reminders of what we believe. My house is almost one hundred years old. It is full of imperfections. It is also full of evidence of my former life. Underneath the yellow paint in the living room is the green I painted it when we first married. On top of the green is the red I painted it before India was born. My bedroom was beige, then blue, then green and now red.

A frightened force within me that is scared of being hurt again, told me to cover every bit of paint. To leave nothing old visible. But a wise voice within me reminded me that I am an accumulation of my experiences. That I am who I am because of what I have experienced and that if I deny the existence of my painful past, than I deny part of who I am. Even if I would have wanted to, I would not have been able to cover all of the old paint. A bump, a crack, a new picture on the wall and flakes of the new paint would fall to reveal the old.
I walked through my imperfect house tonight after I finished painting and felt like I belonged in my own skin. I could move and breathe within the space I had created, without worrying so much about what a knock or two might bring.