Life is a process of becoming. A combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death.
~ Anais Nin
I am looking for a new abode. I am (at last) letting go of my marriage. Trying every day to do so with courage and grace.
Today was less successful, for an hour or two, when my snarky (OK, bitchy) side came out during a phone call with J. But what does it gain any of us if I am bitter? The fact is, it’s over. I need to move out, and move on.
I thought I could live in an apartment close to my work. But I accepted just such a place (quite lovely inside, but a crappy building on a crappy street with a crappy view) then suffered anxiety pains in my stomach until I reneged on the agreement.
So I am looking in Topanga Canyon again, which means a long commute and (I am discovering) cramped quarters.
Maybe I just walk away from everything. All my stuff. And just move into a tiny room (no space for L to sleep over, but a view of the creek and mountains, and chorus of frogs to cheer me on) with a single bed and a dozen books and an iPad. Maybe that’s the catharsis I need, to get me to the next state.
I have never been a ‘stuff’ person. I moved to America 15 years ago with a computer and five changes of clothes. But, for a non-stuff person, I admit I have a lot of stuff. Books. Fabric. Art supplies. I can’t take with me when I die, so do I need to take it with me when I move?
I’m in a process of becoming. Becoming what? or who?