I have time to reflect in isolation these days. I have time to converse with those I like and some that I’m not too terribly fond of, but, hey, why the hell not? I’ve got some extra time on my hands (more on that later). And through all these conversations, I’ve had many a-friend say a version of, ‘…in times like this you see the best and the worst in people…’. And with this turn of phrase being used so frequently I’d like to make an amendment: ‘in times like this you see the best and the worst in people, places and things.’
My uncle told me the canals in Venice are the cleanest that the populace ever remembers seeing: fish swimming, clear (ish) water, dolphins sightings, etc.
I saw a woman yelling at a poor grocery store employee (with a smile on her face) asking when the next delivery of anti-bacterial wipes will deliver. He quietly tried to explain to her with a stammer, that they actually don’t sell anti-bacterial wipes. She did not take that response well or quietly.
But this post is about home. And it’s many faces in this alternative universe, which looks surprisingly like the universe we left just a few short days (weeks depending on where you live) ago. Time is different now.
Home: having a space to quarantine that comforts you in a time of increasing uneasiness. And the idea that there are millions of humans that don’t have a home to go to. Many that are living in financial fear of what this pandemic will do to their place of being; will they no longer have this one place to simply be?. Why is having a home a luxury?! This unfair world needs to be broken down and started anew. And then we can collectively build homes in all shapes, sizes, places for everyone that wants one.
I digress (a smidge), but this tanganielal transgression is part of the confusing duplicity during this time of despair. One of the many that is genuinely heartbreaking. Because I’m about to start detailing the many comforts of my current home; like the warmness that bakes me when the sun pours into my windows at approx. 8:30 to 8:40am every morning this time of year. It gets so hot I sweat; then, and only when the sweat is visibly disconcerting, do I throw the sheets off and crack the window to a cool whistle of early spring air.
Having grown up in lots of homes in lots of places, I moved yet again at the age of 18 to start what would become my adult life. From this age, I’ve been more or less living in the same neighborhood/same zone on a narrow island. And, now, the same apartment for some time. Long enough to grow roots before I even knew that was what I was doing. Planting roots somewhere when you didn’t know you were gardening has proven to be quite lovely; I have favorite park benches nearby, some better for people watching, some for contemplative staring at the water, some for reading/doodling/writing, so many of my different needs met so easily with a simple park bench! I have the best food shopping. Book Stores, bagels, and bakeries. What more could you really need? Not much honestly…. but …
What I didn’t know with roots, not having the experience of having them, is that you have to care for those roots. See where they are nestled: Do they have room? Are they so tangled they lay coiled in stagnation? Or are they expanding to grow the healthiest of buds/fruits/cones?
Am I actually looking and living the life that was supposed to sprout from those roots? Are the leaves supposed to be that color? I’m uncertain if coconut groves are suited to this area of Manhattan. Actually I’m quite certain they are not. Mangos less so.
The supposed roots, the possible roots, and the future roots. Mix and match if you will. Warping and weaving to build this blanket I lay my life upon.
Yikes what to do with these roots that have somehow turned into a cage. A cage of warm sun and banana creme pudding from around the corner. Oh and the books! The books and park benches. Crafting supplies. Paints! Good enough? Forever? Who do I think I am to say this isn’t enough? It’s literally everything.
My apartment is filled with moments in time, something my childhood homes never really were. Those things were kept in the basement in boxes out of sight. Good, bad, who knows what was in those boxes; deemed irrelevant, but they were heavy with the weight of memories that we carried from place to place. Rarely opened and never revisited collectively.
My apartment has representations of the many lives I’ve lived over the years. All the roots. Versions of me and what I’ve done and haven’t finished. Projects and half read novels, proof I’ve existed in the world and continue to. Failings I can’t part with, ideas that I have yet to fully materialize; some I never will. I have living organisms here, too. A tree even that is named, Homeless Heidi. Ironic? I assure you, she was named well before this piece. And it’s impressively full, my apartment and my life.
Collectively alone in this isolated quarantine, in my home. How lucky am I? To have a place that has offered me such comfort and has been able to hold all these versions of me. It has encouraged the roots to grow and welcomed them to introspection. It has appreciated them for what they are and are not. How grateful am I for the time and space of this isolative cage. I’m currently riding on the coat tails of this virus, doing my part to stop the spread. So I’ll cling to this grateful insight I’ve adventured into…. while staying right here at home.
roadside yogi 