Write Priorities

I dithered a bit, and there were a few tears. But it was time, I knew. Get rid of them, I said. And went inside so I didn't have to watch.

My Mum and Dad - when they used to own the house that my own family now owns - planted those ancient wisteria vines that I had just agreed to have removed, and for decades now they have served this house's occupants well. Every winter they lost their leaves, allowing a little of the soft winter sun to enter the dining room, and then in spring they'd shoot again, thick enough by mid-summer to block the harshest of summer heat. They brought shade and they brought the birds, and when dripping with purple at their peak, they brought sighs of contentment too. We had many a joyful party under their chaotic forms.

We have removed them for the purposes of a clean, clear, new outdoor deck, so that the dirt we danced in for my 40th birthday will no longer be carried inside and we'll be able to get out there, whatever the weather. We're working on one massive outdoor pizza oven, a spa and a bar, all for the purposes of enjoying the best things in life.

It sounds so Backyard Blitz, when I say it like that. It sounds so superficial. But now that the old timbers have been torn down and the wisteria tendrils have been removed, we can see right through to the hills of the Jeeralangs, a view that makes you aware of your beating heart. And there is much more light in the house, and a little warmth. And I have visions of serving good food and great wine to my family and friends, of as much love and laughter as I've ever known, because that is something that will not change, no matter what we do to the house.

So with all this that I can see is coming to me, why was it so hard to say goodbye to those gnarly old vines? Those vines that tickled me as I brushed past and made the garden look messy and invaded every other plant in the vicinity and stole light from us all. Those vines that always had to be trimmed and that made the outside of this place look as untidy as the kitchen!

For me it was the knowledge of how much love my Mum and Dad invested, and that their removal felt like something of a betrayal of those long years of joy and amazement. So I remind myself that change does not mean giving up on the past nor a depreciation of its value and importance. It means treasuring what has gone before, taking the best from it, and moving on with a feeling that the infant day will be even better and, literally in this instance, brighter.