Home Away from Home
A Photo Essay
I felt my body melt in relief as I sat on the unfamiliar oversized brown textured fabric couch. My senses relaxed as the chime outside rang in the air. I felt my exhaustion present in my body as I smelled the ocean air. I was safe. We were settled.
A week prior a pipe burst in my house. Now, this week, as the long list of repairs begin to get underway I find myself in an Airbnb in Long Beach, California, a few blocks from the Pacific ocean. It all seemed so simple at first: broken pipe, fix it. Simplicity gave way to too much complexity when we started looking to put the house back together. Phrases like “asbestos testing” and “mold mitigation” began emerging in conversations with various contractors. The good news, we were told, is we have good insurance. The bad news: this was a big deal.
Our house is an homage to a former time. It’s filled with built in wood features, an old pine paneled wall with inset fire place mantel. My bedroom has a floor to wall custom closet system lined with cedar. The house is warm; it’s peaceful; it feels like home to me. So when the next phrase, “tear up your original two-inch wood plank flooring” came up my heart screamed out of my chest while I politely nodded. I could barely contain it. Later that evening the friends we were seeing for dinner asked if I was okay, and I immediately began to sob all the feelings I had been carrying inside me.
The concept of “home” for me has been a complicated one. Due to reasons, it wasn’t until I was an adult and able to build a home with my partner that I felt a truly grounded, peaceful sense of home. That place was in Long Beach. It was at our second floor apartment in a medium sized building across the street from: Target, Trader Joe’s, an Italian deli, a taco shop, and a Starbucks. I KNOW. A millennial’s dream. It was heaven. We had large windows overlooking the palm trees across the way. Our neighbors were chill and we looked out for one another. We got our first dog, Courage, while living there.
Several years later we were grateful to have the opportunity to buy a house in Anaheim. The house in question is the one that’s now being torn apart, plank by plank — plaster chunk by plaster chunk. I’ve always been drawn to vintage things (cameras included), but this house in all its wall papered glory sang to me in the deepest way. We’ve built quite a life while living here, which is in part why it has felt so devastating to feel it falling apart out of nowhere.
I think there was a time I would have felt shame about being so attached to a physical object. It’s so … unholy. I don’t feel that way anymore. I feel like what is sacred to me is sacred to God — not because of the thing in and of itself, but because of why it’s so meaningful to me. I’ve learned in all my years that when the thing does indeed fall apart, it’s not only okay for me to cry … it's essential for my letting it go through my feelings of loss and grief.
One day this house I love so much will crumble. If I’m around to witness it I will be deeply sad. Perhaps the loving of things and letting them go is the training ground for which we learn to love and let go of our own illusions of grandeur, the people we love and will lose, and the fidelity of our own body.
To the photo essay portion of this photo essay: these photographs were taken on an evening (angst filled) walk in the Long Beach neighborhood we’re currently staying in. When I walked this path yesterday morning, the tides were in and the moss was dancing just under the water’s surface. At sunset today, it was laid bare, maybe feeling a bit like I am still. I find them oddly hopeful for all their exposure by the reminder that again tomorrow, they will be covered in water and dancing again in their watery home. Maybe on a morning soon I will be, too.
Click to enlarge photos
