I've been moving for decades, rolling away, ahead and above head-trips and trappings. Starting over has been my steady; we are partners in time. Growth and new dwellings, over and over — and over. Again.
I used to believe it was a weakness.
Oh, how I longed to be rooted in environmental longevity — like centuries-old mahogany or oak. Throughout my life, I gravitated towards friends and lovers who were rooted in the ways I admired.
Still, belonging eluded my existence.
Without a clearly defined sense of my place — a home with habituated familial anecdotes and memories, I openly accepted any welcome into the families of friends and lovers. I emulated until I acclimated and recast my role.
Yeah, no belonging found there either.
At some point, I began collecting cherished artifacts and notes. I've been moving them for years beyond rapid recollection for the sake of the story. This insulator practice crossed paths with a few eccentricities of my brain, and soon vast minutia became collectible.
Belongings as identity. Nope. No belonging their either.
After a few years of undressing pain, rehabilitating, and unwiring faulty programming, I have landed once more in a new space of my own manifesting. Unlike any other, it supports me in a way never known. Prior dwellings held space for my physical belongings, allowing focus on my spiritual and emotional healing.
This new home is ushering expansion through reduction. Upleveling via the release of more layers; the physical shedding of all that held me together during various embodiments of self.
The false prophecy of identity via tangible keepsakes giving way to new world order — my exterior environmental entanglements are aligning with my inner wellness. Getting spiritually naked was the launch, healing wounds is the marathon, physical purging for the gold.
Damn. The exact opposite of how it all "worked" in my past. Where I made it all look photo-shoot-ready-and-together on the outside as my emotional health rotted. I became the master of self-reinvention triage, packing wounds with staging and collections attached to loving moments in time.
It would seem, I was missing the point of being.
My belonging has never been about longevity in location but rather the pollination of presence.
My belongings were never my identity but rather the insulation around my once fragile-hearted sense of self.
As I strip down to bare essentials in my physical space, the parallel universe within my soul rejoices. The magnetic pull of existence is syncing all facets of me into belonging.
In a momentary panic, I resisted this house, right after running full throttle towards it. Without space for my belongings, I felt overwhelmed at the prospect of releasing possessions of my past.
This house, more than any other space, has me. I wake each day with a sense of belonging on levels not fully understood or defined. It's intuitive. A knowingness that right now, I am in the right place at the right time.
I belong here.
It's been a lovingly, liberated expansion. This binge tossing of tidbits is opening more than living space. It's opened my mind and heart as I revisit moments attached to items, bid them farewell, and clear the way for new love.
I'm creating a green space in my heart for new seedlings of self.
Goodbye, belongings, thanks for love.
I have a new steady now; we are partners in the pollination of presence.