I haven't lived in the same space for more than a year for the past six years of my life. My family moved from house to house while I was growing up, and the migration pattern worked its way into my internal wiring - I find myself antsy from time to time, uncomfortable in my own habitat, searching for loose roots to rip up.
However, I sense that I am more of a nester than I'd like to believe. I like the idea of someday I will have a house of my own. Like a good American private property-crazy consumer capitalist. But actually, it isn't the notion of owning the house that appeals to me - it's thinking of how I will arrange objects within each given room. It's thinking about architectural flow. It's thinking about inside/outside and how to best mingle the two. I daydream about the perfect kitchen for cooking, canning and baking. I think about varying shapes of windows and door frames, quirky doorknobs, salvaged antique upholstery, and how to arrange a home library.
I imagine many people experience the periodic desire to get rid of everything they own and begin anew. I am a selective pack rat (I'm not sure selectivity has much to do with being a pack rat, though), and I keep mostly paper-based things: magazines, journals, newspapers, books, love letters, old stories, new stories, discarded ideas, etc. Most of which have tremendous sentimental value. When it comes to everything else, I'm more likely to discard without much trouble, but 'trouble' is a relative term in this context. I will admit, when my mother was moving out of her house in December, she was absolutely determined to get rid of as much as possible, and I was frantic. I began hoarding: ashtrays, empty ornate boxes, throw rugs, picnic blankets, dishware, spice jars. Anything that rang the nostalgia bell, no matter how gently. And the central logic to this process of reclamation was: these things must be kept for when I have a house. As if objects actually hold parts of us that we barely recognize but can't afford to lose. And of course, I am on the other side of the country from all of those things, which are being stored in a tool shed at my father's house, and I am living in a bedroom that is sparsely occupied by books, a large suitcase, a bed, a chair, a stool, two lamps, a yoga mat, a wire hanger with a photograph clothespinned to it, a throw rug (thanks, Mama) and an assortment of miscellaneous items. And my car, that lovely green beetle wagon, holds almost as much as my room holds, if not more, and that in itself seems like a balance I require: half on the ground and half ready to go.
So there is this play between nesting and wandering, and it informs everything: how willing I am to make connections and cultivate relationships here in Portland, how I imagine my future, the kind of livelihood I strive for, the amount of money I save versus the amount of money I spend. Perhaps this is a very ordinary position for a person my age to be in. Also: could this have anything to do with the alleged biological clock? Is there a nesting instinct that hasn't been smothered by layers of cultural, social, and linguistic evolution? The two sides of the struggle seem equally strong, yet the longing to nest arrives in the form of profound desire to stay in one place and form circle upon circle of love and family and community. When I meditate on the impulse to wander, I see myself, alone, and this aloneness is also appealing because it appears to be the necessary preparation for that eventual settling down.
I imagine many people experience the periodic desire to get rid of everything they own and begin anew. I am a selective pack rat (I'm not sure selectivity has much to do with being a pack rat, though), and I keep mostly paper-based things: magazines, journals, newspapers, books, love letters, old stories, new stories, discarded ideas, etc. Most of which have tremendous sentimental value. When it comes to everything else, I'm more likely to discard without much trouble, but 'trouble' is a relative term in this context. I will admit, when my mother was moving out of her house in December, she was absolutely determined to get rid of as much as possible, and I was frantic. I began hoarding: ashtrays, empty ornate boxes, throw rugs, picnic blankets, dishware, spice jars. Anything that rang the nostalgia bell, no matter how gently. And the central logic to this process of reclamation was: these things must be kept for when I have a house. As if objects actually hold parts of us that we barely recognize but can't afford to lose. And of course, I am on the other side of the country from all of those things, which are being stored in a tool shed at my father's house, and I am living in a bedroom that is sparsely occupied by books, a large suitcase, a bed, a chair, a stool, two lamps, a yoga mat, a wire hanger with a photograph clothespinned to it, a throw rug (thanks, Mama) and an assortment of miscellaneous items. And my car, that lovely green beetle wagon, holds almost as much as my room holds, if not more, and that in itself seems like a balance I require: half on the ground and half ready to go.
So there is this play between nesting and wandering, and it informs everything: how willing I am to make connections and cultivate relationships here in Portland, how I imagine my future, the kind of livelihood I strive for, the amount of money I save versus the amount of money I spend. Perhaps this is a very ordinary position for a person my age to be in. Also: could this have anything to do with the alleged biological clock? Is there a nesting instinct that hasn't been smothered by layers of cultural, social, and linguistic evolution? The two sides of the struggle seem equally strong, yet the longing to nest arrives in the form of profound desire to stay in one place and form circle upon circle of love and family and community. When I meditate on the impulse to wander, I see myself, alone, and this aloneness is also appealing because it appears to be the necessary preparation for that eventual settling down.
These domestic spasms have led me to follow the New York Times Home & Garden section diligently. It's just amazing how people envision their homes and then make every move possible to manifest a beautiful, comfortable abode that is reflective of their unique sensibility.
I'm sure all of the people featured are wealthy to some extent - there are certainly no bare bones cold water flats featured. I recall a recent article that described an $8,000 redecorating budget as 'tight'. Ha.
In any case: http://www.nytimes.com/pages/garden/index.html
In any case: http://www.nytimes.com/pages/garden/index.html
I feel it too! I truly do. And it's community and people that I want to fill my rooms with. As well as beautiful things. I know a lot of my future home-nesting-things will happen over many years, as items find places gradually because of habit, not because I meant for them to be somewhere. I feel the itch to travel, but in many cases it's because I love the feeling of coming back home after seeing someplace new.
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