I have been drinking coffee on my back porch, my broken washing machine as my table and a castoff stool for my chair. I don't have a particularly interesting view from where I sit, but I can hear the birds (and weed whackers and cars). I can watch people walk their dogs while gazing into their phones. I can see the city bus hump the island in the middle of the roundabout as it passes through. There's also a man in one of the condos behind us who sunbathes on his back porch.
And when I talk about creating the life that I now have, creating the life I want, this is part of it.
When we moved into this apartment, I was attracted to two features: the bamboo flooring and the outdoor space. This apartment features a decent-sized back porch and several laundry lines already installed, and not only do I crave outdoor spaces, I love hanging my laundry after a wash. There's something so satisfying about watching clothes dry in the sun and breeze.
But there was always shit. The back porch, where we infrequently spent time, was a collection zone for random crap. Or not random crap-- it once held four bicycles and all our other outdoor adventure gear. During the shelter in place of 2020, I had my beautiful container garden where I grew okra, eggplant, flowers, and tomatoes (which eventually gave way to an unreasonably enormous collection of lumber and woodworking tools, largely inappropriate for the space available).
Ugh. Anyway, all you need to know is that the porch was always overrun with stuff.
A few weeks ago, however, we cleared it off. The kids made a trip to the dump, I bought a new broom and dustbin, wiped down the existing furniture (including the broken washer and stool), and now I occupy the literal and figurative space I've been dreaming of for years. In fact, I'm writing in that very space.
This process is a great microcosm, a handy little metaphor? Paragon? Archetype? Symbol? I know I know a word...
Because occupying this space for creative endeavors, for sipping coffee, hanging laundry-- carving out a space for the things that matter to me-- that just represents all this work I've been doing in life in general and what it's all for. This process is messy and takes a lot of work and I don't do it alone, all so I can live the life I've been dreaming for myself. So I can enjoy my outdoor space, go to a spontaneous dinner with friends, buy the expensive jam I actually prefer.
And I've also learned along the way that giving myself what I need isn't selfish because guess what? This space is useful for others, too. By getting rid of what no longer serves us, we've now made space for what does. And the beautiful thing is we did it together. We're doing it together.
Oh wait! This story not pau yet! Still need to get the washer down to the curb for bulk pick up one day, and we have a box filled with balls that I'd love to gift to a family, person, or organization that would actually make use of it. And my bike still lives back there, too. But that's also part of the metaphor/paragon/archetype/symbol-- the work is never done and spaces always shift. So, if you'd like to volunteer to help move that stupid machine downstairs or donate an actual table or know someone who would love a box of random balls-- you know how to find me.
