Sea Change

There’s something about moving that makes you feel as if you’re travelling between parallel universes. Each box packed is a ticket punched, a step closer to a new timeline. I’ve moved seven times in the past 20+ years.

The first four moves were imbued with the promise of a shared future, each new home a brick in the foundation of a life built with my then-husband. We collected memories and mementoes, our spaces filling with the tangible evidence of a life intertwined.

But the last three moves have been a different journey altogether.

They have been about rebuilding, about sifting through the debris of a life once shared and deciding what pieces fit into my new world. With each move, I’ve let go of items that once seemed indispensable, shedding layers of a past self like a snake outgrowing its skin.

This latest move has brought me back to the ocean.

Waking up to the salty kiss of sea air, I feel a sense of homecoming I hadn’t realized was missing. There’s a primal connection to the water, a pull that speaks to the essence of my Greek heritage. Odysseas Elytis (Οδυσσέας Ελύτης), in “The Little Mariner,” captures this perfectly: “If you deconstruct Greece, you will in the end see an olive tree, a grapevine, and a boat remain. That is, with as much, you reconstruct her.”

And so, as I stand by the water, I find myself reconstructing what it means to be me in this new space. This connection to the water is not just about geography; it’s about identity. It’s about understanding who I am, where I come from, and finding a way to honour that in my new home.

My daughter and I navigate this new chapter together, our lives still entangled in the organized chaos of moving boxes. There are moments of frustration when it feels like the disorder will never end, but there are also moments of joy. We discover forgotten treasures and create new memories in the spaces between.

Moving is not just a physical act; it’s a full-body experience. It’s a dance that stretches muscles and emotions to their limits. As we pack and unpack, we feel the strain in our shoulders, the aches in our backs, the tiredness that seeps into our bones. But there’s also a lightness that comes with letting go.

Each item discarded is a weight lifted, a step closer to the people my daughter and I are becoming.

With this latest (and fingers crossed, more permanent) move, I see the beauty in simplicity, in keeping only what truly matters. There’s a certain poetry in this process, a rhythm that mimics the ebb and flow of tides. The sea, with its constant movement, teaches me about impermanence and reinforces the importance of being fully present in the now.

In each move, I left behind pieces of my old life, but I have also discovered new facets of myself. The process of moving, of packing and unpacking, is a metaphor for the inner journey we all undertake. We carry with us the essence of who we are, distilled down to its purest form.

And in each new place, we find ways to grow and transform.

The act of moving is an exercise in hope. It’s a belief in the promise of what lies ahead. It’s a chance to redefine what home means, and to create a space that reflects the people we are today.

As I breathe in the salty air, I feel a sense of peace and a deep sense of belonging. This move reminds me that life, like the sea, is always changing, and with each tide, there is a chance to rediscover—no, to reconstruct—ourselves.