For nearly 12 months, I had no reply to the question ‘where do you live?’. Not in a metaphysical or philosophical sense, but quite literally. For most of 2018 I led a transient life. Quite unexpectedly, as only six months prior, I had moved in to a new, beautiful apartment with the man I envisioned my future with; ready for life with our little family.
One Monday evening after work it had all been ripped away from me, and here I was – a homebody, who thrives in a home, who feels happiest at home, without a home. I was homeless not in the sense that I lacked a roof over my head; this I thankfully always managed to arrange, but these roofs belonged to other people, and I was a visitor in those spaces.
I found myself without home, without love, without the family I thought I had. So, if all this had all been taken away, what if I let everything go?
My relationship unraveled, triggering the need to leave - yet I had no idea where to go. I couldn’t imagine living with anyone else. I had no view I wanted to see when I looked out the living-room other than the gorgeous geological hilltop from our inner west apartment. What sort of future could I commit to, when even envisioning a tomorrow was practically insurmountable? Tomorrow is endless when you don’t know where you want to be.
‘Can you look after my cat for three weeks?’ a friend asked. With these words came great relief. Three weeks is a manageable time. It’s quantifiable in reasonable moments. I needed a safehouse, some place to take stock of my body and heart.
Through word of mouth I’d be contacted by someone who needed their cat, dog, or plants minded. So it happened that for nearly 12 months, I moved every few weeks from place to place. The contents of my world reduced such that they fit into a carry-on, with my other life packed away in boxes, stored until such a time I could fit them into my world again.
What sort of life fits into boxes? The life of things: shoes, clothes, art, books. Piles of books. For years I collected books; those left as offerings on doorstops, sold cheaply in shops, pages turned hard from dust and time. Hundreds of dollars spent on books for my PhD thesis. First editions. Tenth editions. Books I read or never did. I was the housemate with all the books in her room. The life of things is the life we know; it’s the also the life we know ourselves by.
Attachment to things is entirely human. ‘Nesting’ is a term that refers to the desire to organise; to prepare for a new baby, or a life in a new place. We lay out the things we’ve accumulated and purchased and decide what order to place them in. In organising things, we organise our selves.
Suddenly all these things I carried for years from house to house, unpacking for days and then packing again, all these things stopped being in my immediate world. Lately Marie Kondo inspired a movement of people to gratefully retire objects from their lives, but my objects were not thanked and released – they just didn’t belong.
Existing in other people’s homes, with my belongings reduced to what I could carry, turned out to be a joyful practice. I got a taste of other people’s lives. Each home told me something about the people who live there; their passions, hobbies, tastes. One home was packed with vinyl records, another had piles of books and magazines throughout, another was sparsely decorated. It felt freeing, to sleep in someone else’s bed, drink from their cups. There was no need to get attached to any of the objects in those spaces, as within a few weeks I’d be somewhere else: the pillows would be different, the views, the noise. I learnt to find myself in new environments; learnt that I didn’t need to be defined by the world of objects and things.
A minimal existence, taking up little space, has been therapeutic. The end of February marked 12 months since I packed in boxes a life that I’ve not yet unpacked even though I no longer move around. I still find joy and peace in the life of no things to maintain, to occupy, or identify with. I know that one day I’ll surround myself with objects, but for now, I look around at the space I currently reside in; its sparseness brings comfort. Here I exist, uncluttered, thing-less, independent, and safe.
