I always thought that living alone was a milestone of sort, meant to symbolize the christening of ‘adulthood’ and end of ‘adolescent’ behavior. In my perfect version of life, living alone acted as a predecessor to healthy relationships, a purposeful job, and a perfect partnership.
After a year of living alone, these hallmarks of the flawless life I imagined myself to have did not appear. On the contrary, living alone at 23 really means more responsibility. There’s no Mom to remind me to brush my teeth every night, no more free in-unit laundry, and no friends to share leftovers with.
Living as a single human in a 400 sqft apartment means facing the realities of washing every dish I use, having the freedom to choose at any moment, and finding the will to discipline myself.
During these pink Boston afternoons I often find myself restless, unable to be comprehensively grateful for my privilege and at the same time yearning for a life deeper and more crude than my remote office job. Through meditation I find Spirit, but the moment I step foot outside my apartment complex, I become tense for unpredictability, surprise conversations, the fact that any given moment is ever-changing. (okay, maybe this is not uncommon for an introvert, BUT there are nearly 8 billion people alive!). Because we live in a materialistic consumerist society, I am always too keenly aware of my physical identity and attire. Maybe it’s my Libra in Mars, maybe it’s my unresolved trauma from men, but sometimes, when I step outside, into the world of people, it’s not easy to find the courage within me to be me.
Everyone has a different version of who they are, including the one in your mind and the person you actually are. When I was recently asked what I would do the next day if I won the lottery, I instinctively said 1. create a shelter for underserved communities 2. travel to Europe 3. go to art school.
On the days that I leave my sanctuary, usually for errands, sometimes I’ll encounter persons asking for change. I’m reminded of Homeless Lives Matter by Leo Gnawa almost every time. Gnawa’s book is a personal account of his story with being homeless, including experiences with the people he met. When I think of the cruelty of everyday bystanders, people who proclaim to be liberal but pretend to not see the homeless, who ignore them or treat them as animals, I feel an anger no words can explain. And when I don’t have the courage to break the wall of illusion between my heart and the outside world, when I’m asked for change by black men like Leo but I say no, I feel disgusted by my inability to help. It seems that worldly pleasures are still unconsciously more desirable than the internal compass of Spirit.
How many more books and theories on the reality of illusion do I need to read before my soul grips tight on the will of courage and finally embrace the possibility of joy?
At least mutual aid exists. At least I participate in FNB, even if not consistently or actively. At the very least. And maybe one day I will wake up and say THIS IS IT. No more fooling around - I will take the reins of my life and never let go.