I have these weird moments where I step outside myself and marvel at my adulting. Don’t get me wrong, my adulting is only half-ish when you consider that I only have to take care of myself. I don’t even have a pet or a plant for fear that something will look to me for nourishment and attention. And still, I have these moments. I want to describe them to you because it may not be what you are thinking right now. There’s no right or wrong when it comes to the definition of adulting per se, but for the sake of this “discussion”, it’s important that we are on the same page.
I’m a pretty shitty sleeper. It’s genetic and then fed by habit. So, when I find myself up and wandering around in the dark at 2 or 3 am, I am not alarmed. Sometimes I am pissed, but mostly it’s a non-event. Anyway, sometimes I wake up and I look around and wait for shapes to form in the milky black of my space. I pause as I allow my eyes to make out a dresser and a cabinet and shelves. Now, it may partially be exhaustion, but in those breaths, I find myself thinking ‘wow, this is MY apartment’. I marvel at the fact that I’ve grown from a reliant little barnacle to a self-sufficient human.
Please don’t use this as an opportunity to feel slighted by my words if you, for example, live at home or on someone’s couch, etc. I’m not proclaiming my situation as the only acceptable one at all, but rather, trying to describe these feelings I have.
In those heartbeats, I have flashes of other times in my life. I think about my childhood homes and boyfriends’ homes and college and then another place I lived that was decidedly not here. I think of my evolution and how my space has matched those changes. I think of how hard I’ve worked to morph my space to suit my mood and my aspirations. I think of how I’ve purchased and sold and rearranged and gathered and purged.
Did you know that turtles are born with their shells? I’m sure you knew that. Did you know that they are soft at first and then they grow harder? Did you know that if you try to pull a turtle from its shell, then you will likely harm it and that damage to a turtle’s shell can be life-threatening if it’s not treated, because it’s effectively an open wound? Are you wondering why the fuck I’m talking about turtles? Well, my homes have always been an extension of my person. The colder and more fractured and less welcoming the space (my ex’s), the more injured I found myself. The spaces that I’ve lived in that were warm and cozy and friendly, were typically representative of healthier parts of my existence.
The irony is that much like my inside space, when my outside space wasn’t suitable, I tended to morph and squish myself to make it work, rather than making a change. I rarely felt empowered to do something proactively to make a shift. I also never allowed myself to fully process or comprehend that the way the space made me feel was meaningful and often, symbolic.
So, when I look around my space now, I’m filled with sentimentality and pride. My situation is not by default, but by design. It’s filled with books and candles and pillows and homemade quilts. I have giant mismatched mugs and art supplies and at least 15 gray cardigans. I have yoga mats and weights and yes, I have a Peloton. I have ceramic pieces crafted by my sister and jewelry passed down from relatives and art work from places I’ve visited around the globe. I have at least five jars of peanut butter and loads of dried fruit and bags and bags of coffee. I have musky and sweet perfumes, supplies for day and night facial regimens, loads of bubble bath, and many, many nail polishes.
It’s not just that I’ve patched my shell and made it whole, it’s that I appreciate it in a completely different way now. I don’t feel regimented or routinized or stuck. I don’t feel afraid. I just see that for the first time in my life, I’ve created a space that I don’t want to compromise. I don’t want to welcome people in who will tarnish it with negative energy. I don’t want to share it with people who are desperate to change it, or me. I don’t want to move out of it to feel like I’ve accomplished something. My home is not an indication of things that have stayed the same. My home is my safe space.
What I’ve been doing lately is the work required to patch my inner home. The deepest parts of me that have been broken and shattered and damaged. I’m so happy that I have this beautiful little home, but if I don’t fix what is inside of me, what shall I do when I leave here? How can I manage to stay intact when I am outside of the confines of these buttery beige walls?
So, I’ve been doing the same thing I did to my external home, my apartment. I’m hunting around and seeing what fits and what does not. I’m trying to understand what makes me feel good, really good. That’s what all of this is, this talking. I’m not trying to entertain, though certainly I’m tickled pink if I do. I’m trying to find my wholeness in the broken bits that I’ve collected over time. I’m trying to understand how to patch my shell so it doesn’t leave me vulnerable.
I’m not sure I’ll be back for a few days, so I want to make a suggestion. I want you to think about what your external home looks like and then, what you are inner home looks like.
I’ll be honest, I don’t give a shit if you live in a mansion or in one room. This exercise is not about what you HAVE, it’s about who you are and what makes you happy. I will tell you this though, it’s not my things that make me happy. It’s the recognition that I have the power to do so…all by my lonesome.
So yeah, take a couple of days and look outside and then look inside and ask yourself these questions. They aren’t easy and they don’t take a minute to answer, but that’s where you start. At the beginning.
Plus, don’t forget the fable of the tortoise and the hare. Slow and steady is the one that wins the race….
x
L.
thepathtoworthy.com 