Because I’ve sold my table in preparation for selling the house, I ate breakfast on the porch before dawn. Brookside seemed serene. Only the squirrels and the noises in my head broke the silence before six-thirty when trucks started their circuit. The fragrance of my eggs wafted to me through the sweet autumn air, mixing with the pungent odor of freshly brewed French Roast.
Last night, I realized that the square footage of my combined deck and porch approximates that of the tiny house in which I will soon be dwelling. I sat on a chair in the eastern-most corner and studied the area, calculating the length (approximately 30 feet) and the width (eight feet on the deck, ten on the porch). I flunked college math so many times that they waived the requirement to get rid of me. But a little pigeon multiplication using my fingers and toes suggested that the area is (8 x 20) + (10 x 10) = 260. My THOW, with two lofts, will have 313 square feet. Built on a custom 24-foot x 8.5 foot trailer, it stands 11.5 feet on one side of its canted roof, and 9.5 feet on the other.
I sat on my deck for nearly three hours last night. I had two telephone calls, one of which lasted an hour and took me to intellectual heights of which I did not realize I might be capable. I perused a handful of e-mails, shared a Facebook event about a concert that I’m attending Saturday at Prospero’s, and posted pictures of my cool new solar LED waterproof candles.
I loved every blessed second of it and have absolutely no trouble imagining life in a dwelling not much more spacious than the outdoor square footage of this home, a place where I find #mypeace any time of day or night.
A full ten minutes of the exhilarating hour-long call involved my explaining the incredible feeling of letting go of the accumulation of 24 years at this house. After filling the first box, I couldn’t load the rest with sufficient speed to satisfy my longing to escape the weight. I regretted making others live like this. I analyzed the drive to accumulate — and not fancy technology or luxurious comforts, but stuff — old dishes, pocketbooks, pictures, love letters, scratched furniture, and broken lamps which I always expected to fix but somehow never even recalled buying.
Most of it has now been carted away by the world’s best secretary, Miranda Erichsen. She and her mother plan a yard sale and frankly, I don’t care if they give the entire lot away to homeless people. In fact, that’s a great idea. But no more than one box per shopping cart, lest I foist my baggage on some other unsuspecting sad soul who will carry the burden for decades, as I have.
I have a long road ahead of me. But the dawn has shown a glorious day beneath its healing rays. I’m not complaining.
It’s the fourth day of the forty-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.