Been having plant-fever lately. I want to buy up all the house plants I see and surround myself with them. I want to garden. I want to see seeds sprout. I want to smell the freshness of something green and new and alive.
Moving house soon. I miss #3658. I also miss #160, and that 5th floor walk up in China. I miss home. It’s so difficult to make my own home. And it’s funny, I miss these past homes of mine, but there were also things about them that I don’t miss. At #3658, I don’t miss the heat, the stairs, the teeny kitchen and fridge space, the lack of parking, the neediness of my landlady, and the noisy children of my neighbors. At #160, I don’t miss the dampness, the basement feel, or the perpetual smell of marijuana. In China, I don’t miss the thin windows, the smog, the constant dirt and dust, the rooster that crowed every day at 4:30am, or the ghost-hospital hallways filled with foot prints on the walls that went up to your shoulders. In my own home, I don’t miss the closeness of being around my parents so often, the neediness of my parents, the burden of serving when I didn’t really want to but I just did anyway.
I pray for my own home. Renting and moving around so often is a pain. Not being able to hang my pictures permanently, set up my own house the way I like it, live with people that I get along with well, (or not) or have a pet. It’s weary. My own home, and my own family. It’s thoughts and longings like these when I feel like ‘the gift of singleness’ is not for me.’
(Yet, I think it is for me.)