homeless

I spent my birthday driving a totaled car to my parent's house. I spent the next day driving to Eugene and moving my belongings to a different bedroom and doing this uncomfortable separation thing from my house, from Eugene. And when I came back to california, Andrew told me about how he felt when he got home from his backpacking trip. It didn't feel like home.

I am a big fan of traveling. I am a big fan of forcing myself into unique, uncomfortable living situations in many different regions, in many different countries and cultures. I am a huge fan of living with as little as possible when I travel. I have a crazy knack for packing up one tiny backpack and living in foreign places for months on end. But I am also a big fan of having a home. I am a big fan of having a cozy bed and a pile of blankets and pillows to make a nest with, and a bookshelf for my books, and a place to keep my bike, but most importantly, a place that feels like home.

So when I went to Eugene, I tried to embrace my separation with the house I spent so much time and energy with. I pretended to make up my new room in the back bedroom with my other belongings but it felt like a skeleton of a room. It had no soul. I packed up a few things I didn't need, things I just wanted to have with me. My pillow. The jar my mom made me that I filled with coins. A wooden bowl my dad made me for my birthday. Plant books, landscape architecture books, knot books.

But there is no place to put these things in my not-so-home in Santa Rosa. There is no room for another bookshelf or another jar of coins. There is no room for negotiation of the few pieces of furniture Andrew has in his room. And I feel like a spoiled brat asking for more space, asking for a room that is part mine. But I have made a commitment to live here. I have given up a lot to be here, and I would love to have a shelf for my books, a place for my jar and bowl.

And now, I'm going to snuggle with my pillow, because at least that feels like home if I close my eyes.