Sitting on my leather couch. Legs stretched out in front of me, ankles crossed. There’s a ticking from my ceiling fan, if it had a pull chain swinging from the motion of its propellers, that would be it. Pull chain absent, from down here it sounds like a distant water drip into a metal pan. After searching for the drip on my first night here, I discovered the culprit. When there is so much open space with no barriers, sounds tend to get lost. Their origins hard to pinpoint. They echo, spread like smoke. They could be anywhere, come from anywhere. The sound moves, plays tricks on your ears. Have you ever felt like you belonged to a space? Like maybe you were born there or should have been. Maybe it was in another life. That’s how I feel here. I feel just as much connected as if I watched every brick that built this wall laid one by one. Or as if I laid them myself. Like I have held them in my hands. Felt the weight in my palms, the gritty texture against the inside of my fingers. They are familiar to me. Like an old friend but with more history, like my grandfather.
I’ve had too many cups of coffee, my bladder tells me so and I resist the urge to get up again. It would be too warm In here if I had on more than this flimsy tank top and loose boxer shorts. I am just on the edge of being comfortable. Another body in here would surely kick me off. The sun, shining through the 10ft arched windows, making its way across the floor and onto my toes. So warm it’s hard to believe it’s out there and I am in here. There is a very subtle but effective breeze from the fan above me. Just enough. Still I smell the slight scent of warmth from under my arms. You know when you’re not sweating, but not exactly dry and your deodorant from the night before has faded. It’s not a bad smell. It’s the smell of being. I rather enjoy it. Saturday mornings off are a new thing for me. I haven’t shaken the impulse to go do something. It’s more of a feeling that I should go do something. It seems like everyone does. I have a conversation in my head, reminding myself that sitting down on my couch with a cup of coffee and reading in the morning is doing something. It’s as productive as going to the hardware store or emptying the dishwasher. Perhaps a different kind of productive. But nonetheless. Why is productivity that way? Why is re-centering and nurturing your mind thought to be lazy? Why is there a certain time of day when it’s considered appropriate? Why do we wind down at night and gear up in the mornings? I find in the mornings I need to be grounded. I need to connect with myself. I’m so easily stirred up, fragile in that way. Sensitive. Both mentally and physically I need a sense of calm, quiet, peace. I am quite content with doing what others might see as, well, nothing.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve killed three bugs with the back of my hard cover book by Michelle Obama. It just happens to be the only thing around that’s hard and easy to grab. I find it quite fitting actually. I appear to be Becoming less afraid of them. Meaning not that I’m okay with them around but that I can kill them myself and not have to call for back up or give myself irrational anxiety. Perhaps it is because of the sheer size of the space they are in. Everything looks so much smaller. The walls are quite grand. Massive. The ceilings with their exposed beams and pipes are soaring. Everything feels almost open to the sky, majestic but in a raw, earthy, dusty and also minimalistic way. Industrial but not cold. Clean but sprinkled with cobwebs that are out of reach or tucked in corners unseen.
I feel as though I would never tire of this view. Never want for more yet always finding more. I can grow here. I feel like I already have. I’ve both grown and been born in this space. It is a space of past, present and future, simultaneously. The three have joined together, met at the same moment. Become inseparable, interchangeable. The need and ability to distinguish between the three has vanished, it is no longer necessary and yet there’s something so poignant. It is a place of pure being. The purest of existence. The most beautiful of existence. Where imagery, words and songs live. Where the very bricks hold your hand when needed, push you forward, let you fall back, give you guidance, give you a hug, give you inspiration, comfort. Listen. Absorb your voice, your feelings keep your secrets to themselves. Tell stories of grit, strength, failure, power, sorrow, joy. Provide you shelter and substance. The creaks in the floor boards like an old book. A space can be that for you. All on its own. Like a version of yourself in building form. A sturdy foundation. Home.