Boxes for tables.
Boxes arranged in neat organized stacks against walls and in corners to make any German proud.
Some things put away. Like plates, mugs, health products, shoes, winter bedding. Items still to be put away await their right place in neatly organized fashion inside boxes.
In the unfolding of a new home — and it very much is an unfolding, for me — things find their place as if ordered by divine design.
In the chaos of a residential transition, in the universe made temporarily of boxes and bags and my belongings in them, one could ask me for an item — a hammer, for example, particular pair of socks, a pair of tweezers … and I could tell you which box it’s in, within a 1% statistical margin of error.
Not only could I point to the box but tell you where in the box it is!
Such precision, mindfulness, thoughtfulness and reasoning in organized packing are gifts cultivated both through lifetimes and this particular lifetime of nomadic spirit and, i reckon, 51 moves. I’d need to sit down, sift through memory to arrive at the exact number. But you get the idea. I’ve moved a fucking lot!
And no relation to the military. The first question I’m asked if the topic of multiple moves comes up! I’ve oft regretted that I didn’t join the military (navy). I fully understand the reasons I didn’t. It was a very conscious decision made at the time so I can’t hold it against myself or claim youthful ignorance. Even as a small child, I was never ignorant, though ignorance would’ve made my life far easier to bear!
But back to boxes and moving!
While you wouldn’t know it by my blog, I just moved into a studio! Exactly a week ago, come to think of it.
My own space! No roommates! NO ROOMMATES! NO ROOMMATES! NO ROOMMATES! If you tuned your ear to the sky, you’ll assuredly catch those exhalations carried by universal winds!
This marks my re-entry into living alone in 3+ years. It’s been a journey through hell with roommates, a few excepted, all the more sweetening the return to solo living.
A new chapter is begun and a journey of discovery. And the discovery is I. So much of my adulthood with roommates has been spent conforming to others. Conforming to their baggage, their issues, their homes, their rules — fair or unfair, reasonable or unreasonable, hurtful or kind, sane or insane.
In their domain, under their roofs and in the midst of their baggage, I’ve been lucky to eke out a tiny space for myself; sometimes hardly that. A space … a small space … a corner in a room … a couple square feet inside a closet.
Hard to move. Can’t breathe. Cannot be.
When the door to this sweet studio opened, as if by a miracle as if by the hand of Spirit, a week after the assault by the roommate in the former abode, I could hardly contain the excitement. The possibility to live alone again … to be free, from Judy, certainly, as well as the years of unpleasant roommates (to put it conservatively) and the toxic dynamics, the majority of ’em … my hopes were raised … but not soooo high as to be devastatingly crestfallen if it didn’t go through. I’m a product of life’s disappointments to be sure.
It went through! As evidenced by my sitting here in my studio, on one of my two pieces of furniture — the first being a bed that I had to buy, more on that another post — a blue vinyl patio lounge chair purchased recently for a buck at a garage sale!
And boxes for tables.
Ain’t a bad way to live. After all, I’m highly accustomed to living as a nomad. To owning little so I can pick up and move, sometimes in an emergency to escape danger created by another’s madness, sometimes on a dime.
As boxes containing expertly-organized contents get shifted from one end of the studio to another … over from this corner to that corner … in the most natural unfolding of “everything has a place and everything in its place” … and every thing gets its place in my presence! … I circle back to a message I was getting to earlier …
a journey of discovery is begun. And the discovery is I. Freed from the confines, controls and torments of roommates, I get to number 1 breathe. And next, create from scratch a space and place of my own. One that reflects me.
And I’ll be honest. I don’t know who that person is. I don’t REALLY know what a home environment that reflects ME looks like. Like a wild bird released from a cage who is to learn how to fly again, so am I. The inner artiste is now unboxed and free to ask the questions:
What appeals to ME in a home? What colors do I adore? What fabrics? Textures? What type of furnishings? Those things that people take for granted are precious to me for my long imprisonment in spaces and places defined and dictated (often cruelly) by others.
I’m excited. I’m ready. Ready for this new journey. Ready to grow. Ready to discover. I’m eager to create.