Something that has been on my mind recently, that feels even more relevant in this equinox season, is what I am attempting to hold onto and what I can release. Broadly this question comes up in all areas of my life – my relationships, my creative work, how I want to show up for others in this time of polycrisis. It is present as I continue to hold my grief around climate collapse, genocide and all that we are losing, as I try to reorient myself to different futures.

Last year my partner and I bought a house that was in need of complete renovation, having no working heating system, no insulation, lead water pipes and some worrying cracks in the brickwork. In the century since it was built it was home to only two families and despite things feeling a bit tired and in need of attention, there was a palpable sense of care and rightness about the place; something we didn’t want to lose during the retrofit process.

So all our discussions with the architects and builders have centred around our desire to retain as much of the feel of the house as possible, to keep or reuse as many existing features or materials. Not for some kind of architectural purity but because the house felt really comfortable and homely the way it was, and we wanted this to endure. In all the choices we’ve had to make about new materials etc I have been trying my hardest to retain a sense that these things look like they have always been in the house, that they feel at home there. I have wanted it to look, ideally, like nothing has been altered.

For a while now I have been struggling against the reality of renovating an old house. That discoveries lead to decisions you didn’t expect to make, to compromises that are not avoidable. These are things I knew were going to happen but still, they take me further away from these goals I have (rules I’ve set?) about what is an ‘acceptable’ alteration.

Last week I visited the site. Everything has been stripped back to the bare bones. Very little exists inside the house – the plaster, ceilings, floors, doors, staircase – all re-located elsewhere. What we currently have is a series of brick walls, wooden joists and stud work, the tiles on the roof and the concrete foundation. It is humbling to see it all reduced to its essentials, and beautiful too.

But what struck me the most is that everything that gave the house its character, it’s feeling – things like the skirting, the picture rails, the doors, the uneven plaster walls – none of these things have stayed in place throughout the renovation process. They have all been taken out of the house. And although as much as possible will be returned, I couldn’t avoid the reality that the house has now gone through a transformation and what emerges will no longer be exactly the same as it was before.

I’m not sure if this realisation seems all that significant to you, but for me, having spent months agonising about what I am trying to hold onto and contorting myself to try and live up to these standards I had set myself, it released something. I realised there were some things I could let go of, not to abandon my intentions for the house, but because the house has already undergone a monumental change, it is no longer the same. I can allow it to become something slightly different, while maintaining a connection to what it was. And perhaps, in this, I can allow something of us to become present in the story of the house too, and not feel like that diminishes the history it already has.

If you are interested in exploring the possibilities that exist within you/your creative practice to contribute to new futures rooted in justice and care, get in touch to find out more about the mentoring work I do.