- and why change sometimes begins exactly where we would rather not look

By Regine Rauin | When Spaces Tell Stories

 

Today I was clearing up my garden. Nothing particularly spiritual about it. Cutting back branches. Removing dried-out plants. Looking at things I had been putting off for quite some time.

It is astonishing how much you can ignore in a garden when there is enough greenery growing over it.

And then I thought about the drought – and about what it is currently bringing to the surface everywhere.

 

The Drought Is a Ruthless Archaeologist

This summer, things have been appearing that had been hidden beneath water, earth or vegetation for decades.

Old vehicles.

Remnants of war.

Ships.

Things no one knew about any more - or that, at some point, no one talked about any more.

What particularly stayed with me was the story of a motorcycle from the war that surfaced with the remains of two soldiers – and immediately my brain started telling stories...

Who were they?

Had they been reported missing?

What happened back then?

Is there perhaps a grandchild who is now finding out what happened to their grandfather?

 

What We Cannot Deal With, We Block Out - But It Doesn’t Disappear

I find this thought disturbing. And at the same time, incredibly human. Because of course, not every generation can process everything that happened to them.

Sometimes something is too painful.

Too dangerous.

Too complicated.

Or simply too much.

So we do what human beings are rather good at:

We carry on.

We build on.

We keep living.

We plant a tree over it.

We put a shed next to it.

Perhaps we tell the children not to dig there.

And eventually, they may not even know exactly why.

But underneath the earth - or hidden beneath the water - it is still there.

I think we often do exactly the same thing with our own lives.

Not necessarily with great catastrophes.

Sometimes all it takes is something we eventually decided we no longer wanted to feel.

A disappointment.

A separation.

A decision we never made.

A dream we gave up.

A version of ourselves we left behind somewhere along the way.

We don't consciously shovel earth over it.

We simply carry on living.

And remarkably often, that works for a very long time.

 

Until It Dries Out

Because as long as everything is growing, much remains invisible. As long as the garden is lush, you don't see every dead branch. As long as the pond is full of water, you don't see the sludge at the bottom.

As long as life is working, we don't necessarily ask ourselves why it is working.

And then a drought comes.

The water recedes.

The greenery becomes sparse.

The surface loses its camouflage.

And suddenly, the bottom is exposed.

Not particularly pretty.

But visible.

Perhaps that is the uncomfortable side of change that we talk about far too rarely.

We want clarity.

But preferably, we want pretty clarity.

The kind that comes with a sunset.

With a revelation.

With music playing in the background.

Not the kind where we are standing in the mud in our wellies and suddenly realise:

“Ah. So that’s been down there for eighty years.”

 

My Little Pond Taught Me Something Today

I have several small ponds in my garden that look rather sad because of the drought.

The water is gone.

The bottom is visible.

No - actually:

Sludge.

Old deposits.

Stuff that has accumulated over a long period of time.

 

After mourning the beautiful garden, a thought came to me while I was cutting back the dried-out branches:

Right. Then I suppose this is the time.

The drought has a positive side too.

Of course, the drought is hard.

For nature, for the animals, for us.

But it has given me the opportunity to do something I would probably have put off for a while longer:

I can now clean the pond right down to the bottom.

Sludge out.

Old stuff out.

And then?

Fresh water.

And suddenly, something that initially looked like loss became an opportunity:

to begin again.

 

My Garden Has Changed Too

I bought this house 16 years ago. Back then, my son was still little.

I was full of energy.

Full of ideas.

Full of enthusiasm.

We had plans.

We had fun.

I had visions of what this house and this garden would one day look like.

And today?

My son is grown up.

Life has turned out completely differently from how I imagined it back then.

I am sitting here alone – which, incidentally, was never the plan.

And suddenly there is a question I can no longer decorate away:

What am I actually going to do with this life now?

Do I stay?

Do I go?

Can I even stay here?

Do I want to stay here?

And who am I in this house, anyway?

Definitely not the woman who bought it 16 years ago...

 

Perhaps Some of the Trees Have to Go

It hurts.

Very much.

Because some of the trees in this garden are old.

And they are changing.

They are drying out.

They are decaying.

Some may not survive.

And of course, I could choose to look only at the loss.

At what is no longer the way it used to be.

At the garden I once had.

But today, while cutting things back, another thought came to me:

What if this isn't only loss?

What if, where something can no longer grow, light can enter again?

What if cutting things back creates space?

What if other plants suddenly have a chance to grow under these changed conditions?

Not the old life.

Not the old garden.

Not the old version of me.

Something new.

 

We Are Not Obliged to Return to Our Old Skin

Last year was the Year of the Snake.

We shed our skins energetically.

A snake does not shed its skin because its old skin has become ugly.

It sheds it because it no longer fits.

That is an important distinction.

Because perhaps it isn't failure when your old life no longer works.

Perhaps you simply aren't the same person any more.

I am not the woman I was 16 years ago.

And you probably aren't the person you were ten, twenty or thirty years ago either.

So why do we expect our homes, relationships, careers and life plans to remain unchanged and still fit us perfectly?

 

Perhaps This Is the Moment When We Have to Look Right Down to the Bottom

The solar eclipse showed us what becomes visible when the light disappears for a moment.

Alongside it came the emptiness created by the drought – or had that emptiness been there for a long time already?

Perhaps this is the next step:

clearing things out.

Because eventually, it isn't enough simply to tolerate the emptiness.

At some point, you have to start looking.

At what is actually there.

At the sludge.

At the old stuff.

At the things you no longer need.

At the things you never needed.

At the things you have only kept because you didn't know how to let them go.

And sometimes that stuff isn't just sitting in your cellar.

It is sitting right in the middle of your living room.

 

Your Home May Be Full of Things That No Longer Belong to You

The armchair you only kept because your mother loved it.

The picture you bought when you were still trying to be someone else.

The cupboard that has been too big for the room for years – but somehow belongs there.

The boxes in the cellar.

The souvenirs.

The things for “someday”.

The things for “just in case”.

The things for “you never know”.

And of course, they are only objects.

But ask them:

“Why are you still here?”

And suddenly, things get interesting.

Because sometimes the answer is:

Because I can't let go.

Or:

Because I'd feel guilty if I did.

Or:

Because this used to be important.

Or perhaps even:

Because I'm afraid that if I let this go, it really will be over.

And suddenly, we are no longer talking about a cupboard.

 

This Is the Uncomfortable Part of Starting Again

Starting again sounds wonderful.

As long as you don't have to clear up first.

😂

We love the idea of:

starting a new chapter.

But nobody particularly enjoys talking about the page before it. About the things we wanted to take with us.

About the things we have to leave behind.

About the things we finally have to dig up before we even know what is going to be written on the next page.

That is why change can sometimes be so damn exhausting. Not because the new is so difficult. But because the old is still in the way.

 

And Yet, the Next Step Still Comes

I don't know when this drought will end.

Perhaps it will rain a little today.

Perhaps tomorrow too.

But a few drops of rain do not mean the ground is saturated again.

And it is the same with us.

A good day does not mean everything is solved.

An insight does not mean life suddenly changes.

A new thought does not mean you already know where you are going.

But perhaps you don't need to know.

Perhaps it is enough to cut the next branch.

Open the next box.

Clear out the next pond.

Let one thing go.

Leave one empty space unfilled.

And then keep going.

 

Sometimes Trust Looks Remarkably Unremarkable

We like to talk about trusting life.

It always sounds so lovely.

Almost a little like sunsets and wildflower meadows.

In reality, trust sometimes looks like this:

You are standing in a dried-out garden.

You don't know whether the tree will make it.

You don't know when the rain will come.

You don't know what the garden will look like next year.

You don't even know whether you will still be here next year.

And yet you pick up the saw.

And make the next cut.

Not because you know the future.

But because you know what can be done today.

Perhaps that is trust.

Not knowing how the story ends.

But continuing to write it anyway.

 

✨ Hidden Treasure

Perhaps the drought, then, isn't the story of what is being taken away from us.

Perhaps it is also the story of what we can finally see.

The things that have been lying beneath the water for decades:

The sludge at the bottom of the pond.

The dried-out branches.

The old objects in our homes.

And a motorcycle from the Second World War – and the soldiers who were sitting on it...

 

Not everything has to stay.

Not everything has to be saved.

Some things are allowed to go.

Some things are allowed to be mourned.

Some things are finally allowed to be looked at.

And some things can make space for something that, under today's conditions, finally has a chance to grow.

Because you probably aren't the person you once were.

Thank goodness.

Perhaps the house isn't the same any more.

Perhaps the garden isn't the same any more.

Perhaps your life will never look the way it did back then again.

But that doesn't mean nothing can grow any more.

Perhaps it simply means:

Now we have to look right down to the bottom.

And when we get there, we decide again.

Not out of fear.

Not out of habit.

Not from the memory of how things used to be.

But from the ground we are actually standing on today.

 

On Solid Ground

I'm Regine Rauin, also known as Mystic Maveress.

I read rooms the way other people read Tarot cards.

→ WOHNUNGs-READING: What Your Home Is Really Telling You About Yourself

🗝️ Because some answers are already living with you.