In three weeks, I will have lived in the spaces of others for an entire year. I will be off the couch so to speak when I settle into the house with a pool and roommates and a lease. In the last two weeks, I’ve slept and stored my things in Ventura, Oakland and Humboldt County, California. I’ve shared a friend’s bed, I’ve slept on a couch with a grumpy cat between my legs, I’ve slept under the Redwoods in still damp shorts after failing to dry by sundown from a dip in the nearby creek.
I’ve landed in Portland, Oregon with a room with a door. I didn’t realize until two days ago that I had not slept or occupied space in a room with a door this entire time. Dang. I am more grounded than I have ever been. More comfortable with looking like a fool. More at ease, really, with people looking at me in the first place. Every hour is so exposed, I’ve learned to go internal.
I guess the point I’ve come to in the near end of all this is that there’s no point at all, especially in the geographical sense. I continue to not land. Maybe this has been the truth all along (I mean, I know it is)—the only real thing is whatever is right in front of me…and that can change too.