I own a broom.

I’ve been in my new home for a week.  One week and one day.
We have bought pots and pans, a broom, toilet paper.  We have turned on internet, water and utilities.  I rode my bike to work today for the first time.  (5.2-mile round trip.)   Tonight I am using our utensils and stove for the first time, cooking* lentils, quinoa and random veggies.  I am also drinking wine my roommate brought home from her trip back home to Portugal.  My dog is lying at my feet, the Civil Wars are streaming from my laptop, and I am genuinely content


I had a few days with the house to myself.  My roommates were either in Portugal or else working too much to be able to move in.  I had days to walk around my empty home with Kira, nights to get to sleep silently and in the dark.  I read.  I walked to Starbucks. I got acquainted with my home and my intentions here.  I found myself comforted by Kira, and comforted by my reassuring her; ‘this is our home for the next twelve months.  This is where we live, this is where we’ll be at the end of the day.  You can relax now.  You don’t have to think about it for the next year.  And a year is eternity, haven’t you noticed?’.

Rest.  Security.  Stability.  I never thought I wanted it until I really didn’t have it.  And even though this is temporary stability, it is a weight off my shoulders nonetheless.  I am so content; school, the ultimate stability, begins next Monday (Intro to Nutrition, Food and Culture, and Math) and my job is actually fun.  We’re allowed and encouraged to get along and communicate with our co workers, even the cooks.  We can eat between tables, so we don’t, I dunno, have dangerously low blood sugar, contract a complex migraine headache, have it mistaken for a stroke, and go into hospital debt.

I already love my roommates, and I love this location.  It’s technically Tempe, but north of the lake, which provides a comforting separation from ASU and the Mill Ave lifestyle.

Home.  Its such a complicated idea.  Because what is home on earth, when you know this isn’t your final resting place?  How can you feel at home when you know you were intended for something more and something other?  I used to full-out reject the idea of “settling down”; I was attracted to transience, other-worldliness, and the rejection of physical possessions.

These days?  The attraction is still there, but it is mellowed by my longing to fit into my own space.  To love my location, to let the world slip off my shoulders at the end of the day, to know where I’ll be sleeping for the foreseeable future.  I am craving stability in my friendships and the place I end up at night.  I am aching for community and for normalcy.  I want something that’s mine.

I am tired of so violently rejecting commitment.  I’ve got, for the first time in years, ⅖ of my family living within twenty miles of me.  I own a broom.

I want to experience holding my lifestyle (even with its legally binding commitments) with an open hand. I want to be neither attached, nor angrily rejecting, the Stuff of Earth. I want to be here, now, present and aware, and I want to be excited for the plans and unknowns of the future.

*I am a broke gluten-free vegan with pet deposits and school payments, and I thought I could go raw at the height of all this spending.  C’mon Self, give me a break; we’re already eating things like sprouted quinoa, for God’s sake.

Be the first to comment

Leave a Reply