January 26, 2024 07:24 AM
66ºF/ 18ºC, mostly cloudy, 87% humidity, 1015 pressure
I’m writing from my desk, candles lit as the sun continues to light up the sky outside.
My trusty companions include a mug of coffee (splash of milk), a sourdough biscuit made by my housemate (smear of butter and raspberry jam), the blue flannel bathrobe I sewed for Scott six years ago, and Cypress, the sailing cat. I have a whiteboard for half-baked ideas and a bulletin board for inspiring scraps. My great-grandpa’s patent for a new type of tire is on the wall, along with an old-timey photo of my family on a trip to Tucson, a cyanotype print, a newspaper clipping of me as the “messiest baby” in a high chair covered in spaghetti, Scott and I, a map of the Chesapeake Bay, and a photo of my great-aunt and her friend in San Francisco in the 70s. There’s also a painting of a salmon from my sister that says “Go run away my friend! I know you’ll be back again!”.
The room is in creative disarray from concurrent paid due dates and personal pursuits. Scott has been making wooden seam rippers on his lathe and their coats of finish dried overnight. I made a laptop cover from a pair of ripped pants and batting from the creative reuse store. There are baskets of fabric, scraps, and mending underneath the table. The latest rag rug is growing by the week, with the helpful hand of friends who stop in. On Wednesday, a keyboard and stand for a hand-me-down computer monitor arrived in the mail, and all of a sudden, I’m a real office worker again, clicking and clacking away at my tasks.
This house is shared with two other humans and one dog. In May, we asked our friends for advice on finding a rental, and after many helpful pointers, they offered to join us for the whole journey. They went to the open houses and kept us in the loop while we finished the final miles of our voyage in the Intracoastal Waterway. We got to see the place before signing the lease, and all moved in in August. My inlaws hosted us for the gap between plans, about six weeks during the heat of summer. We’re pretty settled in now, as evidenced by the fridge covered in magnets and holiday cards, a first for me since moving out of my parent’s house for college. Most of our furniture is hand-me-down from my sister. She rented a Uhaul, rallied her friends to help us pack it up, bought everyone brunch, and then drove me and the things the entire way to Richmond, 13 hours of drive time. We stopped to take goofy photos of each other at the giant bear statues at Cabelas, just like we did as kids. Our soundtrack was heart-to-hearts and tunes our dad taught us to appreciate. She drove me to the doorstep of my new home and had a look around, before hopping in my father-in-law’s car to catch her plane on time.
This house has hosted Halloween and New Year’s and two birthdays. A dozen or so craft nights, plus a dozen more sessions for my housemate’s art collective. Taco night and pasta night. A parade came down our street for Halloween, and we resorted to giving out sweet potatoes after our candy supply ran dry. From here, I can walk to the swimming pool, three hiking trails, a cemetery, a university, a couple of restaurants, and a convenience store.
This house has allowed me to be closer to others outside my crew, while still having space for myself. I’m honored by the folks who stop through, meeting me where I’m at physically and often emotionally. I’m finding that my favorite way to be with others is to make or do something, the same as I’ve always been. My capacity is increasing bit by bit, and I still sit on the porch with Cypress frequently, surveying our surroundings.
The trees outside still have some seedpods and the daffodils survived the snow. I wish for the seasons to be more orderly here, to give me something sturdier to lean up against, but I guess the temperates are teaching me something about timing.
Welcome back. I think this new journey on land is going to be just as interesting.