Housekeeper’s Diary

The house is grumpy in the quiet hours of the morning. creaking and groaning in to life, and for a while apparently determined to make her reluctance to start the day known to those still sleeping. The gutter dripping outside the living room window, the boiler spluttering in the loft, the old boards of the floors wincing as tired bodies throw themselves upright.

I am already up. Cossetted in a nest of blankets and cushions in the candlelit conservatory. The blinds still drawn so I feel rather like a bird in a cage, waiting for my night-time shroud to lift and whip me into daylight. But oh this is a kind of bliss. A Cath Kidston teapot on the table, spectacles perched on top of my messy morning bun, and my little pile of Daily Greatness journals on my knee as one by one I map out the day and examine my thoughts on everything from what I will eat today to the tasks I will do around the house and later share in my daily to do lists in the BrocanteHome community…

I like my own company in the morning now. My Mother Hen tendencies dampened by the lack of enthusiasm they are received by those who seem barely able to function, let alone humour my natural morning chirpiness. And so I leave them to fumble their way back into their personalities. Closing my ears to the banging of bathroom and bedroom doors as I gather the things they will need and leave them in two piles on the dining room table, alongside mugs of tea and kisses blown from my nest.

And then with a look that tells me how much they envy me being able to stay here in the warmth of this November morning, they are gone and I am alone again. Another pot of tea wet, and a ten minute meditation while it cools to just the right temperature. I sip and write and breathe and stretch my way through my morning routine and then pop my feet into my slippers, ready to take on the day.

How I treasure these mornings. There is something about November I forget how much I adore. A lull before the Christmas storm in which I find myself all too willing to skip over December and dance my way into the New Year on a wave on new ideas and possibility. My entire mind focused on what I can create, how I can keep on fashioning teeny joys and moments worth celebrating with coffee and perfect circles of cinnamon shortbread randomly decorated with the erratic poke of a fork.

Change is coming. I can feel it again. I have more clarity now. More peace of mind after the worst of worst of years and I am grateful for the calm. But change is coming. Not just in my house, or in my silly head, But all around us. Our old ways of doing subtly being shifted towards a different way of being. Different ways of thinking throbbing with promise and a mindset more willing now to understand our need for community and collective responsibility.

I am asking myself questions. What am I holding on to that no longer works or has relevance? What are the old ways of doing things that need shedding? How will the changing nature of this world, the coming shift here on the interwebs affect what I do? What will make me feel alive in 2022? What do I need to let go of to make space for it? All wafting around my head as I make the beds and empty bins and wipe down counters and diffuse the air with lavender and possibility, cedarwood and responsibility. The realisation that I can only affect what is mine to affect and that spinning other people’s plates is exhausting and unnecessary. An understanding of myself gently settling around me like a Ready Brek glow as the answers to my own questions come thick and fast.

So here, on this chilly morning, I reflect, and write and let realisation cosset me. I lose myself completely in December, but in November I belong to myself for a while and much work is done. rituals and routines set in gorgeous granite for this month, like February and May is a quiet one, a liminal space we need to make the most of in nurturing practises and commitment to habits and our own wellbeing. Body and soul focused on flourishing, not withering.

Today then. Ste home mid-afternoon and Finley home this evening. So it is the morning that is mine to spend as I please. I intend to bake. To fill tins with butterfly cakes and flapjacks. To put smiles on the faces of those who rate sugary gifts. I will bake and sing and drink more tea, And then I will sit down again with my journal. Spilling my mind on to blank paper so that like a detective I can find the clues I need to map out where the year ahead will take me. Mapping out BrocanteHome for the New Year, fathoming what is working and what isn’t it. Bringing ideas to life and saying goodbye to those things that do not reflect the deeper work I want to do as age forces me to acknowledge that trivia no longer has a place in my head.

This then is a thinking week. Thinking to be done in-between wrapping the Christmas presents I have bought so far, and gathering my thoughts for tonight’s book-club. There are things to be thunk. Cakes to be baked. Worries to set aside (for worry never served anyone), and of course tea to be drunk.

Flourishing not withering. Let’s make it our mantra.