New Nest

One of my many nicknames, my favorite nickname, given to me by my mother—a significant thing in my life, as my relationship with my mother is not always a peaceful one, and so it comforts me eternally to know always that at least she coined this most special name for me—is Bird.

 

Lately I’ve been in the mood for nesting.

 

And getting ready to migrate.

 

 

In fact, there are only a handful of nights left in my current roost, the studio apartment with nine foot ceilings, blue walls, bookshelves and granite countertops, where I’ve been living for the past two years. The place I moved into while under stress, under attack, during my divorce, during my personal ground zero moment.

 

At the time I wanted something safe and clean. The building was brand new. The hallways weren’t even painted. No one else had used my bathtub. I could see everything I owned from my bed. This felt comforting. This gave me peace. I felt safe enough to break apart. To weep on the bathroom floor until I was empty. To scotch tape my pieces back into place.

 

This place, this apartment, provided me with space enough to heal, no walls to hide emotions in other rooms.

 

But now-

 

Well, now I realize these four walls contain room enough only for me (and the yorkie-poo just barely). There is no room for other people in this space. Perhaps to visit. Perhaps to share a drink and a conversation. But there is no room, for instance, for a boyfriend in this apartment.

 

So I guess it’s time to move.

 

I don’t know if I’m ready for a boyfriend, but I’ve decided I’m ready for at least a bedroom. I’m ready for a dining room table and chairs instead of the four unevenly matched stools I bought for $14 a piece at IKEA. I’m ready for a desk in the second bedroom, a futon for friends who visit, a room entirely for curling up on a couch and watching a movie. I’m ready for rooms, living, family, and otherwise.

 

I visited the new two-bedroom apartment I will be living in—and by new, I only mean new to me because it lives in a building containing just three other apartments built in 1909- one hundred years ago. I stood in the living room wishing for different paint choices and getting used to the space. I picture this place full of life- full of other people- full of so much more than myself.

 

The mental nesting begins in the way of plans, my most comfortable tool, and leafing through catalogues, imagining what colors need to go where, picturing photos from trips decorating the walls. I see plants and rugs and a white enamel desk sitting in a room full of windows facing the coffee shop across the street. I hear music. I smell food. It’s like I can imagine my chosen family of various friends materializing in certain corners of the apartment. I am mentally buying a comfortable chair- one I would never want to get out of- to rest in the living room of my new place. The place where I want to not just stay, not just use to recover, but the place where I plan truly to live.

 

And in this mood, in the new apartment, I can’t help but feel that by finding a new roost, one big enough for more than just my sorrow, one big enough for my life, my joy, surely another person will appear in the space.

 

“Are you going to get a roommate?” a friend asked as I told him about the new two-bedroom place.

 

“No,” I say, “it’s not really big enough for a roommate. I mean, it’s big enough for something like a boyfriend to share it with, but not really a roommate.”

 

“Oh, so what, you have a boyfriend now?”

 

“No,” I say sheepishly. “But, you know, I figure I get the apartment and the boyfriend will appear eventually.”

 

“You’re planning ahead,” he said. “I like that.”

 

I do too.

 

 

 

Back at the studio, though, I think about the new spot and I wonder if I will be able to fill the space. What if there are no friends? No gatherings? No dinners? No boyfriends to make the walls of my new apartment burst with life? What if I wander lonely from room to room? What if I rattle and spin like a quarter through the empty, echoing walls, on the ancient, faded hardwood floors?

 

I can’t pretend that writing this has eased my mind. I can’t pretend that it makes me confident that I will suddenly be open to new relationships in my life.

 

But I guess I can trust the nickname. I guess I can trust those instincts stirring me to move and migrate, nestle and nest. I guess I can trust my mom knew me when she named me Bird. How do they find it? The place in the south where they need to fly? How do they know when it is time to leave? I’m pretty sure they don’t overanalyze it. I’m sure they don’t write lists and weigh pros and cons. It can’t be that they call friends and ask for advice. Or that they make appointments with their therapists.

 

I’m pretty sure they just go, just because something inside says fly. And so will I- not looking back over my wing.