I knew that moving would be uncomfortable. I also knew that it was right. I lived alone in my one-bedroom apartment for three years. I built a nest there, a home, a safe and nurturing space. I healed there. I grew. I created and dreamed and brought life to my dreams.
The apartment itself, the walls and space, became a canvas. There was freedom in my solitude. I was able to make it my dream apartment, even though it was small and cheap and, in places, falling apart.
My old apartment
The imperfections were my favorite parts. There was a brick wall in the apartment, probably one hundred years old, with built-in bookshelves, where I put things I’ve collected and a cavity where I put my grandmother’s vase. The red porous brick absorbed love and sent back hope. Hope for more in life, more from myself. I found both.
Since late winter of this year, I felt that it was time to move on. I’d been fantasizing about living in a brownstone and would visualize myself in a beautiful, old apartment with architectural details and fireplaces. The physical space around me brought joy, but the urge for something more tugged at me with soft, yet persistent hands.