Ode to The Little Apartment in The Big Yellow House

Tonight I came face to face with The Move. It was the first night that I actually had time to put things in boxes and thoughtfully decide which pieces would be each others moving buddy. I thought I would maybe crumble under the emotion of boxing up all my stuff (or at the very least tear up), but I was oddly calm. And the rhythm of dropping things in a box, folding the flaps together and stretching out the clear plastic tape over the top to seal up all my belongings was peaceful. It was the same feeling I have when I'm out surfing and just resting on my board in between sets, feeling the rise and fall of the waves as they make their way toward the shore.

It just felt right. And I've only had that feeling a few times in my life where a situation felt wholly and completely right. One of those times was the day I stepped into my current apartment 7 years ago. I knew I would live here for a long time before the real estate guy uttered a single word. And this apartment...well, it's been a big part of my life, much like the way a city or place is a big part of a story. This apartment, with its ridiculous idiosyncrasies, has been more important to me than the things in it. And I don't know that I truly realized that until tonight. It wasn't the stuff that tugged on my heart strings; it was the room that held it all.

Looking back, there has been more activity in this room than a metro station. I've had good news and bad news delivered to me here, mistakes and accomplishments made, survived earthquakes and had plenty of crazy times and good times in this room. I've had good neighbors, bad neighbors, weird neighbors and the sound of sirens surrounding this place non-stop. I've cried in this room more times than I can count and laughed more times than I've cried. And it seems so silly to be all mishugina over a room! Four walls, a few windows and a roof. But I've lived life in this place.

I grew up here.