This Must Be the Place
On living with my ex-boyfriend.
Dear reader,
It’s early morning. I’m perched at a counter inside a roadside diner, sipping a cup of decaf. I’m gazing through a window at the trees that line the road. Their branches frame a cluster of weathered mailboxes before a driveway, lost in the shade, while the sun warms the backs of my hands as I write to you.
In January, I moved off of the ranch. I’m still close by, about thirty minutes from there, but I don’t have nine landmates anymore, and now I go to my own house meeting on Tuesday nights. Situated on a winding road and tucked into a canyon, my new home is a wood-paneled Silver Streak trailer from the 1970’s. Considering its age, I’m amazed by how many of it’s original features are still intact and functioning. I’ve hung my mother’s glass prisms in the south-facing windows, and light shines through them all morning which creates a tapestry of dappled rainbow dispersions.
My fingers touch the ceiling during sun salutations every morning, but otherwise the trailer feels like it was made for me. As a petite woman, this is a somatic experience that I don’t take for granted. Inside the trailer walls—which are curved—I feel safe and cocooned. Nowadays, when I visit friends in their homes, I’m rattled by how cavernous most modern spaces are. Suddenly everything seems so big, and empty. I wonder, What is all this room for?
It’s just me in the trailer, so you can intuit that after two and a half years of communal living, my life just got a lot more simple. Indeed, things are quieter, and I am taking better care of myself than I ever have. I practice yoga every day. I’ve been sober for 69. At long last, I’m caffeine and sugar-free. Most importantly, I’m available.
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