I’m moving. I’m moving for the first time in almost 4 years.
I’m moving from the place that I’ve lived the longest in my entire life, other
than my childhood home.
People move all the time. Heck, fellow dissident daughter
Jill moves entire houses almost every
year (Haha, sorry, J, I had to go there!) Indeed, I am only moving 5 blocks
from my current apartment, so not much will change in terms of neighborhood,
work commute, etc. However, for me, moving is a big deal. Let me explain.
I’ve written a ridiculous number of blog posts about my
current apartment. Click HERE to read about my adventure in painting it from
top to bottom. Click HERE to read about my final project this summer. You see,
I write about my apartment often because it essentially became the most
concrete symbol for ME and my journey. It was at this apartment that I would
say that I REALLY grew up. I don’t mean to imply that I was not an adult prior
to moving into this apartment, nor do I mean to suggest that I will stop
growing once I leave. But it was THIS apartment where I had to confront some of
the darkest forces of life, and those tend to age someone in a way that no
other experience can. I moved here right after losing everything that I had
once held so dear, and I was forced to embrace the ubiquitous snares of grief-
the devastating loss of meaning, dreams, and faith.
My apartment became the most concrete symbol for this
journey. I moved in, and the apartment had the ugliest green trim and carpet
everywhere. I had almost no furniture, save for a 1980’s box TV and a futon
that resembled a car seat more than a cozy place to relax. And for almost a
year, the apartment remained stagnant because I didn’t have the energy,
creativity, or desire to make it better. But slowly, I started to pour myself
into the apartment. I started to find interesting secondhand pieces and fix
them up. I bought new furniture. I started painting the ugly ass walls. And it
became a self-perpetuating effect. The better I started to feel, the more I was
able to give to fixing my apartment. And the more I fixed my apartment, the
better I would feel because I felt pride in the work that I was doing.
I started to feel so proud of my work that I would tell
everyone that I planned to stay in my apartment as long as I could- I would
only move if 1) I got married; or 2) I suddenly decided to move out of state.
But life just doesn’t work like that, and we are usually led to where we need to
be, which is often different than what we expect. The signs start slow, and
then they start to build until we finally get the clue.
This past August, I wrote this grandiose blog post about the
meaning of finally painting over all of the green trim and feeling “finished.” The VERY SAME day that I published that blog
post, a mouse got into my apartment. It turned into a huge debacle (it’s a
funny story, ask me if you want to know more!), and I briefly wondered if there
was some sort of deeper symbolism to the fact that it happened on the same day
that I published my blog post. I had just finished writing a post about my love
for the apartment, and that same day, I started cursing my apartment because it
failed me- it let in a disgusting rodent. However, I brushed those feelings
aside. I found out that my neighbors had accidentally left their door open for
over an hour, so of course a mouse got in. I let it go.
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| Let's be real- this is what my version of moving looks like. #clowncar |
But over the course of the next couple of months, the signs
kept coming. Someone ran into my lovely purple car in the middle of the night
and left me to wake up to the damage.
Additionally, I found out that my landlord was selling my building, and
the fate of what would happen to the building was uncertain. I also just
started to feel different inside. The economical DIY upgrades that I had been
sooo proud of started to just feel…temporary and unsustainable. Moreover, I
started to feel less passion about upgrading the apartment in general because I
had done everything I could as a tenant, and anything else would be a massive
overhaul. I even started to resent vacuuming because even when the carpet was
freshly vacuumed, it still looked nasty because the carpet was green and old
and ugly. One Saturday in January, everything culminated together, and all of
the sudden, I literally said out loud, “I’m ready to move. It’s time.”
It seems like it came out of nowhere- all of the sudden I
just snapped to the realization that I wanted to move. But it really had been
building for 5 months. God is funny like that- I think that we are often given
clues about where we are being led, and they keep building and become louder
until we are able to hear.
I’m so excited for my new place- it’s an upgrade to my
current one, and it has a lot of old house charm with upgraded appliances. I
knew as soon as I stepped into it that it was “home.” I had looked at a bajillion
other places prior to this one, and I just knew that this one was right.
Because I’m so ready, my grief over leaving isn’t very
intense (which is significant for someone that is ridiculously sensitive!) If
anything, it feels more like…I’m leaving my grief behind. Not that you ever
‘get over’ grief, but I’ve integrated it as much as I can, and the rest of it
is staying in my apartment. If anything…the feeling I feel most right now is
fear. You see…after the turmoil and growth of the past 4 years…I’m now at one
of the happiest phases of my life. I’m so content with the people in my life
and the opportunities I’ve been given that I feel like I could burst. And
because of that joy, I’m terrified. I
am overly cognizant of the fact that I could lose any (or all) of these things,
and it’s almost paralyzing.
I’m still not sure what to do with that fear- I think that
may be my journey for my next apartment.
Until then, know that redemption and creation are real. And the best way to know what they are is to live it.
