Squatters

"You have to have a sense of humor about these things, missy." said Kenneth, directing a big smile down at me. My ears were hot, eyes drawn as far back in my sockets as they would go. I couldn't even look at him. I was trying not to explode with disgust for him, and the situation, and not succeeding very well. The entire downstairs floor of our house on D Street had smelled like some mix of dead rats (reminiscent of old vomit, or worse) for just over a week now. He plodded around putting flashy blue light mouse preventer contraptions in all the rooms downstairs. They were his way of saying he wasn't going to do more to address the actual problem, and they gave the trip to the fridge at night the feeling that you were on a tiny landing strip with erratic unpredictable signals.

Abandoned Train Station, California, Simon Christen

In its better days, tenants of this house had nicknamed it buttercup, cause it’s yellow and used to be kind of sweet. Still holding some of the prettiest little chandeliers and charming quirky little traits I've seen in the Capitol Hill Historic District, Kenneth was leaving buttercup, and we who lived there, to the rats, robbers, and slow decay that comes with 100 years of bandaid only maintenance. We weren't supposed to put nails in the walls, because when you did, a steady stream of some of the finest, dryest dust I’ve ever seen came out of the nail holes for an average of 30 seconds-to-a-minute consecutively. Most of the light switches and panels in the house still use push button electricity (you know, before electricity was really electricity).

Somewhere, between the smell, dust of death walls, belittling smiles, nuclear hazard night lights, and the phenomena that my roommates and I weren't sure we felt ok about hanging out anywhere but our beds themselves, and really only under the covers at that, my urban single girl brain began to wonder if we were really getting such a good deal on the rent. None of us are in a position to buy a house. We're renters, at least for the next good chunk of years. But at what point does a tenant become a squatter? Did we live there, or were we  just storing our things there, holding over for the night like some cave in the wilderness? 

Our souls cry for home. A place to belong. This was not it.  Three weeks til Christmas, and we all agreed & began searching craigslist for an immediate escape en masse. One click gave me pause. 

Beautiful. Why do I know that address? 

Impossible. My parents' house. 

The same two people by whom I entered this world, who originally defined my home. The same two people I just had to let go to the other side of the great beyond. The same two people who wouldn't be there on Christmas. There, staring at me on craigslist was the very same house my parents first lived in when, as 20-something west-coasters, they moved to DC in the 70s. A home. A veritable castle. A four story victorian, four blocks from the Capitol - and with a view of the dome from the top two front windows.

Seven days of jockeying, six close to sleepless nights, adding a couple new roommates to fill the extra rooms, too many texts, emails, and one of the best exhales in a long time, the lease was signed and we moved in just a few days before Christmas. It's like something out of a movie, an act of God. Is this a new beginning? The real life stuff of great books’ literary themes? A divine returning to the same ground to deepen the plot? These are the questions that go through my mind. These are the things of adventure, real life, a good lift to ride the wave of this human experience. We search for a lot of things in life, without really knowing exactly what they are. Maybe the gateway to many such expeditions is finding what I’ve just found at least some small part of. A starting place. A resting place. A home. Not just for being, but for belonging.

Scootah

I recently purchased a vespa-style scooter.  It's awesome.  Honestly, everyone is jealous.  It saves tons of money, time, and it's really really fun.  There are some drawbacks - it can be kind of a theft magnet, you have to be a much more defensive driver.  Also, if you have the occasional habit of yelling things at people from the safety of your car while driving--as I do-- you should really try to remember that on a scooter the whole block can hear you shout "Seriously buddy, this is not a parking lot!" in your exasperated voice.  But my favorite things are people's reactions (or least favorite, depending on the instance).

They literally stop me at traffic lights.  I'll be on the sidewalk, and they stop driving--blocking traffic-- and come over to ask about this thing.  It's kind of ridiculous.  There have been some funny, some annoying & some startling ones.

A very consistent repeat is: "Whoa! Is that a scooter?" as if they've seen a ghost. Their brow is furrowed, their eyes intense & jaw dropped.

I don't know how to answer that question. Sometimes I'm reduced to "Hey yeah. Yes. It is. Ok, green light. See ya."

They've got stories about scooters.  Stories they'd like to tell me the full version of as I'm mid-way through fishing my lock out of my tire, or holding the elevator open so they can finish, before they've introduced themselves.  They find it about as likable and novel as you might find this guy. They just want to hang out.  As a person who's not real talkative with people I don't know this is a unique new phenomenon to me.  I have somewhere close to five of these kinds of conversations every day & feel bad for cutting them off cause I'm actually going somewhere (hence, the scooter).  Is this normal?  Are people just really that distracted by shiny things?  Should I be validated or confused?

Give & take like a baby

 This morning I was thinking and praying as I walked on my way to work, and something a friend and I have been talking about a lot recently came to mind, the open hand - holding what God gives you with an open hand that receives with thanks, but kind of offers back too.

It made me think of little babies, especially around the age when they start to do that thing where they bring you random things or food and want you see or partake and to be as amazed and pleased with the thing as they are. Then they take it back. They they give it back to you again, over and over and over. The child isn't afraid that you'll take the thing or use it against them, but in their innocence, their desire to share overcomes their desire to possess, if even only for a few moments, because the sharing makes the possession more full.

Sometimes I observe things in nature and they make me think that God put them in, just so that we would know that what He is like. This is one of those, I think. It's as though he gave very young children this mannerism for the sole purpose of teaching us the kind of relationship he wants with us- not to fear, not to horde, not to cling tightly, but to engage with him and marvel over simple things...I remember doing this as a child, marveling over the thing I shared, but as an adult having this exchange, my memories feel more deeply joyful, though I was not marveling over the thing, but the child.