I am sitting on the floor of my new apartment–a gut rennovated unit in a classic art deco building. Bauhaus flourishes on the interior of the building itself. My apartment is 800 square feet. A perfect, polished parquet. Wrought iron railings into a sunken living room; marble bath with modern fixtures. The kitchen, however, is space-aged…but still honors the spirit of the space.
I am an incredibly environmentally sensitive person, and one only need step one foot into this apartment to feel the positive energy; the ambient Meredithness of the place.
I am uniquely capable of feeling at home in the myriad places I’ve traveled over the last 18 months; I had come to rest comfortably the last 75 days, or so, in Northern California. But this place, for once, is all mine.
It’s a weird feeling, you know, to meet youself in the places you don’t expect to find you. To have spent your entire adult life in committed relationships, and then to come, the Friday before Thanksgiving, to a starkly empty apartment that is all your own…and find you have, for once, truly come home.