Homeless 0-44: Home Away From Home

annealedsteel
I might feel most at home when I’m away from home, getting by with my small cache of carefully-selected possessions, making do without my library, kitchen, and comfortable routine. I could be more present when I’m gone than I ever can be when I’m home.

I find more comfort knowing that my stuff is there than I feel when I’m sitting in the middle of it. I can only wear one pair of shoes, read one book, sit in one chair at any one time. My other shoes, books, and chairs become tacit possessions then, and I their absentee owner.

On the road, my responsibilities narrow. I schlepp my own baggage, all of it in its entirety, active owner of everything I packed. I rise early, undistracted by the morning newspaper. I fall asleep late in the serene knowledge that I’ve left no nagging chore undone.

I feel overwhelmed by the impending move. My sense of security staggers under the certain knowledge that I will be, over the next few weeks, sorting through my lifetime’s detritus again, culling once treasured possessions and rightful inheritances, deciding what to carry forward and what to simply leave behind. Though I feel the excitement of impending adventure, the packing flags my enthusiasm.

I will steel my heart and make the tough choices, understanding the absolute heart-breaking necessity of lightening my load. And over time, my annealing heart strings will lose their rigidity as I lose my attachment to all those tacit possessions I’d always left behind anyway, when making each home away from home.

©2012 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved



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