Getting comfortable.

I took myself to the secret beach last week; it’s not really secret, but it’s far enough north of Malibu almost no one frequents it–especially on a Tuesday night. Somehow, I came home with a broken mussel shell and a gorgeous piece of driftwood. I can’t remember the last time I took relics from the beach. I’m not someone who likes to hold onto material objects–you never know when you’ll move again, and anyway, my memory is a better keeper of sakes. 

I avoid clutter, feel anxious, claustrophobic even, when things begin to accumulate. I spring clean year-round, pare down my tchotchkes, as my mother calls them, with such ease you’d think my sentimental Cancer moon were a lie. But eight months into my journey in Los Angeles, I am beginning to accumulate things, and I can feel myself resisting.

It’s been a lifelong conundrum—reconciling my love of beautiful things with my desire not to be bogged down. So many unnecessary things. So many tethers that make it harder to leave. I don’t know what to do with it all, the many candles and framed artworks, lamps and tablecloths. Stacks and stacks of birthday cards and travel souvenirs, family heirlooms and tiny trinkets. Do I really need a decorative pillow on every surface? A little end table might look nice against the settee, but should I? Will I ever find a purpose for my great-grandmother’s crocheted baby blankets? 

I love beauty, but sometimes I think coveting it is more enjoyable than owning it. The pursuit of beauty. The desire for beauty. The fleetingness of it. Light is one of those things of beauty I love most in the world; I am constantly chasing it. Fitting of me, really, to be enamored with something so impermanent. But I know my avoidance of possessions goes deeper than this. 

Someone recently told me I’m a runner. I know there is some truth in the statement, though I’ve never uttered it aloud. I don’t seem to stay anywhere too long. When I left my Pennsylvania hometown for the first time at eighteen, I had no idea I’d move seven more times before I reached thirty. The itch usually comes by year three, wherever I go. I can’t seem to avoid it. I know most of my insatiability comes from having a curious, restless mind; the remainder is probably fear. 

I think about people who stay in one place their whole lives and feel myself tense up. I drive through suburbs and small towns and it’s as if a shadow is suddenly creeping along my shoulder, taunting me. Do the residents there feel lonely and trapped, does the silence and stagnation suffocate them as it did me? The idea of becoming static terrifies me. If I pause for too long, the demons appear–the demons being: reminders of meaninglessness. Sometimes I think I am a nihilist disguised as a hedonist. I prioritize pleasure, seek joy and love, because I am too very aware of what lurks behind it all, and I’d rather not look. My existentialism is exhausting. I wish to shut it off, yet I also wonder if it gives me purpose in a purposeless world. 

So I run as soon as I start to feel stuck. As soon as I feel I’ve exhausted a place. It doesn’t feel safe to be rooted. Being rooted could spell disaster. I could stop growing, stop learning. I could lose myself. I might not survive, if I stay. A bit of an oxymoron linguistically, but conceptually it makes perfect sense to my silly scared brain. Keep moving. Keep seeking. Stay curious. 

What exactly am I looking for? Will I ever find it?

My therapist told me recently: wherever you go, there you are. I know it, having read the book by Jon Kabat-Zinn years ago, but this time it hits me. Oh. That’s right. Maybe I run from myself. 

I am not running from myself anymore. In fact, I am doing quite the opposite. So when the nihilistic thoughts find their way to the forefront these days, I remind myself not to give in. Buy the bookshelf you want. Grow a balcony garden. Get that museum membership. Make everything yours. Stick around a little longer. Don’t be so afraid to lose yourself.

My friend’s husband had a birthday party last weekend. I showed up towards the end of the night, multiple hours late. I was nervous they’d be disbanding soon, that I’d have missed it all. But instead, Hunter opened the door and caught me in a big hug and behind her shoulder I found a cozy group sharing wine and pie and conversation. I sat down and was welcomed. Embraced. We got vulnerable, we challenged each other, we laughed and (some of us) cried. We stayed until the early morning hours.

When I finally got home, I slid off my sandals and shuffled softly around the room, turning off the lamps. Before the last light went out, the broken mussel shell and piece of driftwood caught my eye, perched atop my piano. I realized I was smiling.

I’m where I’m supposed to be, but I don’t really mean the place. Maybe this time, I’ll let myself get comfortable.