beyond the boxes: reflecting on home after the move

Picking through my moving boxes in search of a bottle opener, it feels as though I’m playing pretend. Like I don’t really live here and I’ve just checked in for the night.

My old brass bar, where I used to keep all of my openers and wine decanters, stands abandoned in the hallway at the old place.  I don’t drink much anymore and it seemed pointless to bring the heavy thing along.

It’s quiet here, in my new place, and I think I might be comfortable here.  It is an odd feeling.  How can some apartment up the road become home all of a sudden?  This building has been here for years, I never even looked at twice, but suddenly it’s home?

I’ve already updated the address in Uber Eats.  Three deliveries so far- one from Target for cleaning supplies, another from the grocery store and a third (just now) from Chipotle because I was starving.  When my quesadilla arrived a few minutes ago I stood amongst the boxes and chewed quite happily until the guacamole was gone.

Everything happens for a reason.  My old landlord is apparently tired of charging reasonable rent and instead of giving me the option to pay more, he decided renting the apartment out from under me was a better route to go. So approximately 27 days ago, I learned that I needed to find a new home. Did I mention I’m also writing a book and working full time?

Despite the circumstances of my move, I’m pretty pleased with how it all turned out.  I almost wish I’d moved sooner, but of course, hindsight is 20/20.  

It’s amazing how little one needs to survive.  Here I am, having just spent hundreds of dollars to move all of my things from one address to another, and all I’m surviving on tonight is my phone charger, a bottle of water and a single duvet insert.  I’m too tired to unpack the sheets or pillows.

I look around at all my cherished possessions, the couch turned on end, the boxes and boxes of books, antiques, shoes, unfinished manuscripts and hair products.  Do I really need any of this?  Did I just waste a stack of money dragging relics from from one station to another?  Have I mussed-up my “clean slate” by bringing all this Old into the New?

The truth is, I wear all of my shoes.  Every pair - at least once a year. I collect tea sets and vintage china.  And I have a lot of natural black hair growing out of my head, hence the box full of product, irons, and dryers.  

And the boxes of books, well, I love the smell of books.  And I re-read them. Often. I even buy hardcopies of books I’ve listened to on Audible. Old prints and new.  I happen to have two copies of Jane Eyre, each of them bound in red leather and printed long before I was born. One of the copies is disintegrating.  The cover is crumbling away into soft red mounds of dust.  However, the pages of that copy are still intact, aged, sturdy parchment with wobbly typeface and illustrations.  

I own a few newer books in paperback.  Some of them swelling with sticky notes and flags.  I revisit them to understand how the author created conflict, how the story began, or how it ended. I love my things and suddenly I feel overwhelmingly grateful that it’s all here, dry and safe in this new place.

I am not a nomadic person.  I love traveling and experiencing new things, but I drift back home before too long.  In 2017, when I stepped onto a beach along the Indian Ocean for the first time, I considered the simple steps that it took for me to wind up there.  A few clicks to book the flight, packing some clothes into a bag, two plane rides and I’d arrived in Sri Lanka, one of the most beautiful places on earth.  Sure, the trip took time, money, and a little planning. However, the will behind it and the decision to go was very simple.  Certainly this is something I could do more and apply to other areas of my life?  Change things up.

The way I feel about home is very different. 

I found my Carrie Bradshaw apartment nearly ten years ago, by complete chance!  The original apartment I’d booked a showing for wasn’t exactly available to view. The property manager, Sarah, had forgotten to call and give the current tenant any notice.  (That should have been a red flag right there).  I’d stood in the hallway, watching Sarah ramble on and jiggle her keys like an idiot, when a youngish brown-haired, incredibly pissed off guy snatched the door open from the inside.  “What are you doing?  I’m here!” he’d shouted at her, wearing only a towel and dripping wet from the shower.  Thinking back on this now, that could have been an incredible meet-cute. Stay tuned, the scene may appear in some of my writing one day…

After apologizing profusely to the guy, Sarah offered to show me another unit just around the corner.  It hadn’t been painted yet, but it was available.  And more importantly, the previous tenant had already moved out.

I fell in love immediately when I saw my old place for the first time.  A vintage building, with all the charm and crumbling plaster you could wish for.  The radiators were full of cat hair, but I only cared about the original hardwood floors, the bay of windows, and the wide archways leading to the dining room, kitchen, bedroom and bath.  And, the closet space!  Let’s just say, until very recently, my shoe collection knew no limits.  

Some folks like to move around, live in different areas of the city and suburbs. Me, I prefer to stay put. I like having private jokes with my neighbors and seeing the seasons change around my building.

And so I stayed put (for years), spending my little coins to improve the place and with my landlord’s blessing, I made it mine.  After every flight, every extended trip or long weekend away I cherished the walk to my old place, climbing the last few stairs and turning down the hall to see my glossy stained door with the gold unit numbers.  I became synonymous with the building, with its stone facade and ornate entrance. The front staircase that I’d bounded down on the way to brunch, the airport, or a first date. All of my loved ones gush about my choice of decor and the romance of being young and single, while living in such an old building.

“Of course, you live here!” a friend stated once upon seeing my building for the first time. Several friends had their own moment at the old place:  a special announcement, a confession, a few days curled up on my blue velvet sofa, recovering after heartbreak or disappointment of some kind.  The Hideaway, they called it.

“End of an era”, they said once they learned I was moving. 

How can a random third floor apartment with no elevator and too many stairs hold such a special place in people’s hearts?  How could I feel such permanence there?  I have no children or anyone else’s commute to consider, I could’ve lived anywhere.  Why hadn’t I?

When I learned that I had to move - and move quickly- I dreaded the idea of being alone somewhere new.  I’d logged so many hours getting through shit in my old place.  With each year, it had proven a wonderful place to heal and to find myself again when the world got crazy.  There was a routine- rather-a blueprint to my healing in that place.  The creaky floorboards on the way to my bedroom.  The kitchen where I went vegan and mixed turmeric smoothies to combat my autoimmune disease. The couch where I dreamt up some of my best ideas.  And the shower where I cried.  

Sitting here now, in my new place, I soon give up on the search for a bottle opener and hobble back into the bedroom.  My heels are so sore from packing and moving, that I’ve slipped on a pair of Love and Marriage mules to take the pressure off (“Al!”).  I collapse onto the bed, sober and too exhausted to sleep.  I think to myself, this place is very promising and a much needed fresh start.  I think about who I’ll be here:  the lady in the flowing maxi dresses that carries her lap top everywhere.  The Black girl with flower pots in the window and espadrilles at the door.  

Anonymity can be a wonderful thing.  I’ve met a couple neighbors, but everyone mostly keeps to themselves, save for the blue-eyed cicadas crawling all over my front door.  Only a few select friends even know I’ve moved.  I suddenly like the idea that I’ve stolen away to some new hideaway, to write a new chapter.  

After all that fretting, saying goodbye to the old place was easier than I thought. Walking through the empty rooms, I made peace with what I’d learned there—disappointments and breakthroughs alike.

When I wake up tomorrow, I’ll get started on my new life here.  Now that I have lived through this move, I’m reminded that in just a matter of hours I found myself in a completely different space.   I feel lighter, motivated, and unbothered.  Perhaps I shouldn’t lock-in this time.  I shouldn’t get quite so cozy as I did before.  I should explore more. At least until I find my forever home, somewhere I can knock down walls and have everyone over for listening sessions and dinner parties.  Where I can pile up all my manuscripts, even the bad ones.

Still I’m grateful for this port in the storm (especially the in-unit washer and dryer).  My eyes are closing now.  In a few minutes I’ll be sound asleep in this new, foreign place.  I realize, there is peace here and I’m starting to believe this was all just a blessing in disguise.

This is a place where I can make home. For however long.