Unpacking

Guess what I should be doing right now?

Unpacking.

Guess what I'm actually doing?

Anything but unpacking.

I'm overwhelmed at times about how much STUFF we have. It feels endless. And yet, it all fit neatly into a truck and was easily transported across the country. Lance and I would have made terrible pioneers. We would have needed a whole wagon just for his music, and another for my kitchen gadgets. Gone are the days when my life fit into a tiny Toyota station wagon or two suitcases. It started slowly. A lamp here, a bed there. A kitchen table and chairs. Calphalon cookware for Christmas one year, an antique wardrobe the next. Then I married a man with more stuff, and then it just multiplied from there. Like rabbits. Or hipsters. Is this how every episode of Hoarders starts out? I hope not.

The last four months have been spent in tiny guestrooms on futons, both of which were graciously provided by generous friends. They let us use their stuff while we left ours in an anonymous storage unit so we could save a little money, and figure out how to navigate leaving one life and transitioning to another life. The crazy thing is, we didn't miss our stuff. Not a bit. Okay...I missed my pans, and Lance missed his music, but that's it. Just our two wagon's worth. But living in one room for 150 days gave us both some valuable lessons. Here are a few.

Lesson #1
It is impossible to stay angry at your spouse for long when you occupy 200 sq ft. It's just way too uncomfortable. There is also NO ESCAPE. No refuge in the far corners of your roomy 500 sq ft apartment, or sleeping on the couch. The only option is to swallow your pride and work it out. The futon is just too small for egos and the need to be right.

Lesson #2
Everything in your immediate grasp becomes an obstacle or necessity. That pan I thought I just couldn't live without for four months? Space waster. That toiletries bag that seemed kind of bulky and unwieldy? Can't live without it. 37 articles of clothing that must be hung up? Silliness. Same goes for the four cases of limited edition St. Arnold's Divine brew. (Sorry, babe.) Netflix streaming video on the laptop before bed? Marriage-saver.

Lesson #3
Friends who let you stay with them for two months at a time are superheros and deserve their own place in heaven for putting up with you, your stuff, and your transient lifestyle.

Lesson #4
Everything and everyone will get on your nerves, even if you posses the patience and fortitude of the Dalai Lama. Some people might call this character building, I call it inevitable, so just stay with it and learn something about yourself.

We really do love our new apartment. It's beautiful and bright and homey. It feels enormous to us. We have quadrupled our living space. For the first time in our marriage, we have a second bedroom. We have enough storage to fake being minimalists, (and hopefully forfeit our spot on Hoarders). We can each have our space to study, play, organize, and rest. I hope we always remember how big this space is, how our stuff ultimately doesn't make our lives better or more fulfilling, and that we can always choose something else even if it seems impossible given our circumstance. And if all else fails, we know we can live in one room and be happy.

The Bridge

I have a thing for this bridge. I have loved it for years.


Let me introduce you to the St. John's Bridge. It spans the width of the Willamette river and connects the most northern parts of east and west Portland. I fell in love with the beautiful green upper arches made to look like a cathedral as you drive over the river. On a clear day you can see Mt. St. Helen with it's top blown off, Mt. Hood levitating in the east, and a distant-but-distinct Mt. Jefferson as you cross. I also fell in love with Cathedral Park which lines the east side of the river where one foot of the bridge is planted. What I really fell for, though, is the trestle made to look like gothic-y cathedral archways when you stand in the park and look straight through the legs of the bridge. The designers didn't just make the top of the bridge beautiful, they made the underbelly of it a sculptural work of art, too. It's impossible to see how the columns and peaks line up so perfectly unless you are underneath the bridge. It's a hidden, concrete piece of modern art.

Did you ever hear the old parable of the three men and the rocks? I feel like the last 5 years have been spent building a sacred space, but mostly it's felt like I've been moving a lot of rocks. Many times I've lost sight of what I'm doing, where I'm going, what I'm building, what my work is for. The schlepping and scraping and breaking has been tedious and wearying. But when I look at St. John's bridge, I am instantly connected to my life's work, my love work, and the sacred space I am building for myself and my family. I am reminded that the view from the bridge can be breathtaking and beautiful, but the hidden joists and trestles keeps it firmly intact...the mysterious, unsung, and gracefully engineered piece of artwork that I cannot see unless I am willing to look underneath the surface.

I took this picture last summer when moving here was a lovely and terrifying dream that I really hoped would come true. It did. (I know, I'm just as surprised as you are.) And it has been both lovely and terrifying and a million other in-between feelings. But right now, I mostly feel lucky. Jobs, housing, school...it has all worked out. We have a small but precious community of life-long friends who ground us, decent jobs to sustain us, enough money to pay for my schooling as I go, and a cute tiny apartment near the west waterfront on the south side of Portland with our own little garden plot and fruit trees. Years of dreaming, planning, hoping, saving, stressing and angsting...and we're here.

This is me. Building my cathedral. Creating a space for love to grow.