And then I moved again, this time to a modern studio in an upcoming neighborhood in Oakland. It was still California, but far away from Los Angeles – just east of the San Francisco bay.
My new neighborhood reminded me of the old place in South Williamsburg. There were industrial warehouses everywhere and a Blue Bottle coffeeshop around the corner. “Good signs,” I thought.
I recalled something a friend told me when I moved into the Soho sublet a few short months ago. “There’s nothing like waking up in your new place on Day 1,” she had said.
This time, Day 1 happened to be at the end of January. I awoke in a warm patch of sunlight that streamed in from a narrow window, throwing a bizarre-looking silhouette across the room.
When I left NYC yesterday it was just about snowed in.
I blinked a few times. The first as a reaction, the second a question, the third the answer.
“Home.”
I felt the way I’d imagine a soldier to feel after being extracted from a war zone, finding him or herself enveloped in total estrangement yet peace. This feeling was supplemented by a gentle quiet and (omg) sort of cleanliness that most places beyond New York City have the general ability to provide.
Climbing up from the floor I looked around with appreciation and wonder. The empty room was huge.
The energy radiating from my broken body felt like more than enough to fill it.
The job I had lost. The man I thought I’d marry. The very specific war I had waged on myself. Those things were in the past. It was time to stand back up again.
Here I was, alone in the sunshine, semi-naked with two suitcases and a brand-new mattress on the floor.
Some shame, no blame.
Anyway, I needed to be fed.
I found my way to a Target where I purchased a frying pan, a french press, two plates, a metal cup, a glass cup, and some silverware.
I explained to the woman behind the register that my belongings weren’t arriving from the east coast for a few more weeks.
“Are you scared?” She asked. “I would be!”
“Kinda. I’m just taking it one step at a time.” I shrugged and swiftly swiped my credit card through the reader.
“Starting here with the small things I probably need,” I added.
We laughed.
The truth was that I was terrified, but didn’t care enough to let the change manifest itself in anything more than the adventure that it was.
“Best of luck to you,” she said and smiled. I could tell she meant it.
It took me another week to go back and buy bedsheets, mostly because I was developing a real problem with the idea of acquiring “stuff.”
This new space was sacred. It didn’t want any objects in it. Objects were destroyers of the peace.
They also created an all too comfortable setting and it dawned on me that I didn’t want to be comfortable ever again. I had fought too hard for too long for that, and it never seemed to work out.
It was so much better this way.
I was happy with my mattress and minimal kitchenware. It sounds odd, but it created an atmosphere where I could focus on the only thing that needed tending to.
Having nothing was better than something, because when you’re lost it really doesn’t matter what you have.
After a period of throwing away my plans, my self worth, my savings – like a storm building on the horizon I had the opportunity to rally back stronger than ever. I was somehow bringing myself back to life, and the changes were settling in fast.
I didn’t know it at the time. Sometimes life can get so foggy. Sometimes it hurts your eyes, the clarity turning to a milky white before developing smoky edges and descending to black.
Then one day you finally have the opportunity to look back at what had been.
I would’ve stayed in New York. But there wouldn’t have been as much happiness as there is now, eight weeks later as I type this.
After the rally.
After a hungover day in which I decided to finally purchase a chair. Then a couch. And two weeks later when the couch arrived, I stood in the living room and stared at it, making a point to not sit in it for another two weeks.
Stuff keeps us tethered to the passage of time. Our past, like an old piece of furniture, is comfortable with the unyielding ability to hold us back – from the sunshine of the present or the wild unknowns of a blissful future.
Perhaps we buy physical things to make up for what we lack in that way. It’s a distraction, the stuff we have and showcase and position for.
Yet when those things are gone it’s okay. There will be a bright new place where the light bounces freely and there is no room for shadow. Your blinks become meaningful, clearing the debris to make room for other beautiful things.