My plane back to New York leaves in eight hours. After California and a quick visit home, it's back to Crown Heights, where a new apartment awaits me.
So once again, here I am - collecting my belongings into boxes on wheels.
I am scanning my room. The room in my home. My home on this hill. This
hill near this lake. This lake in Seattle.
But this is no longer my place. A solid six months away was enough to make that real.
My family still calls this "Mimi's room." But we all know it's really another guest room. And this trip home, my position in life blended with the new room status. I was just a guest. The nomad was visiting home.
Some of my belongings still make a home in this space that made a magnificent background to my high school years.
You can tell exactly what I used to be.
You know, back in the day.
There was a time when I wasn't a nomad.
I was a painter.
I was a music connoisseur
A collector of anything vintage.
A cultured reader.
An expert scrapbooker.
My paintings, CD collection, jewelry, books, pictures - anything that
lended itself towards a strong and important hobby - just sit around,
bored as ever. My notes from learning in Israel are begging to be
reviewed, but there just isn't room for them in this nomadic
existence. You can only travel with so much stuff, hopping from
apartment to apartment, making short visits home, traveling for my job.
Meanwhile, I am galavanting around Crown Heights assuming the title of
"just-another-single-girl-living-in-Crown Heights." I am no longer a
painter, or anything else. I am just a victim of a nomadic life,
awaiting the day when I will be settled. The day when I can put all my
books on a shelf, and not just the ones I need. The day where I can
paint the view from a window, and it will be meaningful - for it is my
For now, a strong part of my life sits idle in a space I used to
inhabit. This room. This room in my home. My home on this hill. This
hill near the lake. This lake in Seattle.