Seldom have I found a year so difficult to get along with as I did 2018. And, true to form, she closed with an uncalled for display of downright bitchiness.
Three straight days of tearing up my loft so as to prepare for an exterminator. Covering whatever I could in sheets, taping plastic garbage bags over the rest.
And then off I went, exhausted and little bit tardy, to one of the best weddings ever. Two beautiful brides and the father of one toasting ‘love is love.’ Rocking high heels (that would be me, resurrecting a skillset from my youth) but then abandoning them at the end so as to dance with abandon.
Joy joy joy.
When I emailed my landlord for an update I learned that the exterminator felt it unlikely that my loft should need another go. However, if I wanted to put everything back (um, yes), if I left a two inch gap between furniture and wall, a wand could be then inserted for extermination if indicated.
So home I came, windows wide open, fans going, plastic garbage bags untaped, sheets laundered, floors mopped, furniture shoved back in place. Getting back my sanctity.
I always remind myself that in every crisis there is opportunity. It wasn’t particularly easy to see the positive in bedbugs next door, but in the end, I reassembled my loft in a way that is better. If I have to shift again, it will be much easier and in the meantime, the flow of space is far more pleasing.
So there you go.
And the same with 2018, a bit of an unmitigated disaster itself. Opportunity in that crisis–a chance to recalibrate and reassess.
To that end I have pulled back into myself just a wee bit. Introspection and perhaps even a tad of introversion. Writing, painting, waiting. For what, I am not exactly sure. Living in that liminal space where the only quantifiable concept is progression. That is a known, a given. Something that must be lived with.
Ironic that a certainty results in so much uncertainty. But that is something I must make peace with.
I’m working on it.