27 April 2008
I moved house about a month ago, and have been noticing the toll it has had on my body. I no longer agitate about things I cannot control nor about those I think I can, the practice has helped me with that. But my body is still a wreck.
I feel the fatigue in my bones, from the weeks of physical and mental preparation, the move itself, the adjustment to the new flat, new city, new job, all within the compressed space of about six weeks.
Before moving, I gave away what I could (mostly personal effects), and packed up what I had to (mostly work stuff). I save very few mementoes these days, not even books, save those I need for work. When it comes down to it, there are very few things one needs (as opposed to those one wants).
So it is with interest that I watch myself domesticating my new space with new things. At the moment, I am still attempting to maintain simplicity, buying only what I need — utensils, appliances, washing up liquid. And yet, even with these items, I find myself inordinately engaged with making the choices that would balance both my budget and my aesthetic sensibilities.
A fork doesn’t seem to be just a fork in this scheme of things, in this act of capturing a space and making it one’s own. But what do I own? Not the flat, it’s rented. The fork? Perhaps, until it is time to get another one. What I can own (or own up to?) is this experience, this sense of what it means to have a fork I chose in this space I rent that I now call my ‘own’.
Image: Blue eyed hermit crab. Source: stock.xchng