I begin the last day in studio #9 much as I entered not it but life: in a pool of water.
The bath, the bath, oh how I shall miss ye, oh ye most excellent bathtub of studio #9! You’ve been friend in dark times, savior in distressed and all-around helpful buddy.
You’ve soothed my muscles, tendons and ligaments when they’ve hurt, kissed my bones and relieved me of weariness from a day’s activities.
Oh ye most excellent bathtub have been my knight in shining armor — my porcelain knight — for you’ve rescued me from the worst of myself and unpleasantries of others around me in my living space.
You’ve given me solace when I had none (usually), healing when I needed it (always) and hope.
Yes, you’ve given me hope, ye most excellent bathtub of studio #9. Hope. I knew I could always come to you in the best of times, the worst and all between and you’d take me in with welcoming (porcelain) arms. Nourish me, nurture and accept me unconditionally.
You’ve been a mighty fine bathtub indeed. A tub of comfort, relaxation and restoration. Even better than my bed, plenty of times! 🙂
I give you up not because I want to but have to. Wasn’t my call or choice to move. Bad things happen to good people; you know the saying.
In these challenging times, I need you now more than ever — correction, as much as ever. Always have been, always will be a water baby. In holy alliance with water, from the great seas to the swimming pools to the tub.
As you know ye most excellent bathtub, my new place (occupancy begins today) has no tub. It has a teeny-tiny shower coated in cotton-candy pink tile — reminiscent of motel rooms circa 1950.
I’ve been turning the Internet upside down, inside out and every which way in search of ways to introduce a tub into the space. And I spent all day yesterday hitting hardware stores, tractor supply store, thrift stores for solutions.
Unfortunately, the solution with the greatest potential that most raised my hopes — a Rubbermaid deck box — is a bust. Won’t fit through the skinny bathroom door (again, 1950s motels).
And even if I DID unscrew the hinges — a dubious endeavor, attempting to reinstall a heavy door singlehandedly — the dang thing doesn’t fit through the shower opening! Measures a guesstimated 2-1/2 feet. An obese person couldn’t squeeze though!
So as you see, ye most excellent bathtub of studio #9, I face a dilemma or four in creating a dedicated bath space. It could mean a short-lived tenancy. Not saying it will! … just could.
It’s more than a dilemma I face. It’s a loss. The loss of you, most excellent tub who has warmed my heart, soul, mind and body so thoroughly and healthfully and joyfully in these past three months of residency.
I shall miss you soooo so much. I missed you even before moving into the new place for I knew what I was giving up / had to give up.
It pisses me off how others dictate my life, down to where I live, bathe, eat and plant my head upon a pillow at night. If there’s anything I would ask of you, most excellent tub of studio #9, in these closing moments before we part permanently, it’d be this:
First, help me to create a space for a bath. You know my needs better than anyone. I know it won’t be you, a replacement or substitute for you. You’ve been one of a kind. Special. You’re near and dear to my heart. Know that. Help me create that space so that the baths that are second in importance behind breath can be achieved.
Second, stay with me. Sounds funny, freakish, outlandish to say that to a tub, doesn’t it? Stay with me in spirit. You know that I’m heading home and before I get THERE, over there, far far away in a galaxy neither seen nor visible to the human eye, I need that home HERE, on planet earth.
Home is an issue. I’ve never had or known one; rather, the homes I’ve known and had are fields of ruination bloodied war zones littered with corpses. You get the picture.
In this journey, as I try to truly define and create a home that is of me and for me, you know, most excellent bath, that it is indeed a bath — a mighty tub of water — through which my heart flows into home.
Time passes, the afternoon flows to midday, soon followed by my work shift. (I love my job, you know!!) I must leave you now. Dear, dear tub, my heart breaks to leave you. Were that I could put my arms around you as you have me so many times, nearly each and every day, I would!
Instead, I let my tears flow into you, tears of grief, tears of anger, tears of fatigue, stress and weariness from the constant hassles and impingements and oppressions by neighbors and landlord.
Tears, too, of promise of things better and hope that one day … some day … in ways I can’t imagine or predict or know … I shall be basking in a bathtub that is my own in a place that is my own.
And I will have you to thank for helping me get there, guiding the way in your magnificent tub way. I shall miss you dearly and carry you in my heart. And until we meet again, in another expression, place and time, I thank you, deeply, most excellent bathtub of studio #9. May the wind be ever at your back and across your warm soothing waters.