The studio art loft, with its 10-foot ceilings and fir-planked wood floors would be the perfect space to write, and pursue my creative notions while contemplating my next move. I’d eye-ball’d it for years while living in dreary Browntown–a place where galvanized tin and medieval theologies ran rampant. The sort of town where empty beer cans lay in the wake of the beat farmer’s tractor, next to the dry campus, adjacent to the monolithic building built of latter-day bricks and myopic mindsets.
After my year of loss in which the circle of those I loved got downsized by the Universe, I decided it was time to downsize myself and find a smaller dwelling.
The art loft was the type of space I’d dreamt of–above the coffee shop, next to the old movie theater, and near the Mexican resturant … no, the other Mexican resturant.
I had to walk some 29-steps up a steep fire escape, through an exterior metal door and down a long, tall hallway with otherworldly skylights–which my ficus tree would grow (literally) to adore.
Once inside the apartment, 8-southfacing windows of mythical glass opened up to me. I was inspired and thrilled for the first time in years with my home. Sure, I was still in a depressing zip code, but this was the brightest pad in the brownest of towns.
The move to downsize from my ghostly 3-bed, 2-bath empty house, forced me to give away clothing, books, autos and even old wedding albums I couldn’t justify holding onto. In less than two hours I’d sold most of my needless belongings and had burned what I couldn’t give away or sell.
I asked the Universe to guide me, to find me a place to thrive in while I sorted out my life; and the minute I made myself the right size for this to happen, the door to this space opened for me.
So many times we ask for something without making ourselves ready. We ask for love, but are we loving? We ask for help, but are we helpful? I wanted less to deal with in my life, less toys to polish and less floor to sweep; and once I eliminated these things from my world, I found what fit me.
Before long I quit my soul-sapping job, and moved entirely from Browntown. I’m grateful for the year of solitude, inspiration and meditation this little space afforded me.
Now, three years later, I’ve moved in and out of several small spaces: a sailboat; a tiny log cabin; and currently into my quaint mountain home; in a town of 1,500 people; in a county with no stop lights. People learn to look both ways while cars gladly oblige without an electronic prompting.
As I continue to downsize, I find more opportunity for travel. I water a couple of plants, turn the heat down and hop in my FJ cruiser for new lands, airports or roads without signs. The world has become more accessible and ironically smaller than I might have imagined … but without question, ultimately much more grand.