3310

I'm walking down the hill to downtown, ocean on my right, when I notice the voicemail: "Welcome to 3310 Howard St.!" I'm thrilled. I knew, somewhere confident inside me, that I'd gotten the place, but was waiting with stilled breath to actually get the confirmation from the owner. 3310. I'm 33. It's October. 10. Some nice numeric symmetry doesn't hurt my romantic mood about the whole thing.
The rest of the walk down I giggle, sharing looks with the ocean about all that lies ahead. I will only be in this little beaut of a cottage for around three months, but it's the now that matters. The meaning of it now is that I have a home. A borrowed one, but one that I fell instantly in love with as soon as I set a socked foot on the bumpy mosaic entrance, clearly homemade, and clearly made with love.
The love didn't end there--just began. Mosaics also filled spaces above the bench seats of the dining table area and the splash above the kitchen counter. Images of woman, in all her goddessness and voluptuousness were everywhere. As were hearts. The warmth of the place was instant and the kind of hug from someone you trust who is wise and knows what's best for you.
I realize, just now, that person is me. I'm the hugger, the huggee, the hugged, the ... well, I'm it. I know what's best and sometimes it comes in waves of feeling, rather than on paper in a list neatly segregated into piles of wants and don't-wants. The feeling decisions are always harder to explain. I get insecure trying to describe the illogical desire to do a thing just because, "It feels right." But what else is there to tell us what to do? The lists are fun, and sometimes a good distraction, but the feeling has to be there. Or else the desire is not.
So I will move in to this place (my two suitcases of clothes and now various plastic bags full of random items and my one bin of "important things") in a week and I will start what I hope will be My Life.
No pressure.
In fact it does feel a little like pressure, but not the heart rate raising kind. It feels like knowing hands kneading fragile but voluminous and heavy dough. It feels like that hug--that one that tells me when I'm doing The Right Thing. I've always thought 'the right thing' was what made other people happy, kept other people believing I was a good soul, a good friend, a good partner. That will be, someday, what makes a decision the right thing. I will have a partner who needs me to think of them first, a child or two who demand (passively and unknowingly) that I think of them VERY FIRST. But for now I have me. Barely. And completely. I am all mine and so are my decisions.
And so I move in to this tiny place by myself with the claw-foot tub and the romance and creativity literally built in to it. And there I will start it. My Life. In fact, I have started it all ready.
And it feels right.