searching for steady ground

At this time two weeks ago, I felt my tongue swell and my face warm as I suffered through the last two of a nine-hour, fog-covered drive from the place I've spent the majority of my life (mind-boggling acknowledgement) to my apartment--the place I have for one more week. I moved in almost exactly five months ago, thinking this would be the first place I regularly returned to for at least a year. That was my first real-adult goal. After I unpacked in May, I recycled my reused boxes, something I'd never before done. I planned to stay.

I wanted it more than the Progressive discount I received today to commend me for my safe driving. I wanted it more than a certain diagnosis from the MDLive doctor, two urgent care doctors, and ER doctor in the last four days. I still don't have one. I wanted it more than my student loans to pay themselves off, more than my goal to add to my savings account each month. Yet here I sit, in a room with bare walls--my paintings, records, and photographs taken down hours ago--and piles of broken-down boxes. They await the belongings I've drug behind my weary soul for years, a few new items from each place I've tried to claim since I was smaller than how I feel now.

In one week, I'll unpack them all again, as I've done before. I'll hang my paintings. I'll wish I could afford to create again soon. I'll frame the photos in lights. This time I'll remember to print more. I'll open the boxes, empty them onto the same shelves, crates, and hangers I've used for years, and break down the cardboard. I'll store them in my trunk this time, returning to the mindset that I'll need them again soon. Nobody can convince me otherwise anymore.

This feeling comes a week after reveling in the joy of finally feeling comfortable with where my feet are. While living in DC last fall, a friend shared the wisdom, "Be where your feet are." I try constantly. As with all trying, some attempts don't end successfully. My move to Des Moines largely fits that category. The amount of trying times in the past five months exceeds the maximum I'd prefer. I almost listed them in that sentence, but a random memory stopped me. I remembered the strict guideline set by my professor last fall: a sentence cannot exceed 28 words. That number might be slightly off, but the concept stuck. Alas, the last five months have given me more than I can comprehend in one sitting, so a few sentences that take a couple reads shouldn't be too much to ask of a reader.

Since moving, I have dealt with quitting a job for my personal and professional well-being only to be bombarded by negativity, demeaning questions, and frequent jabs at my history of lacking financial stability. A roommate moved out (thankfully--I'll say no more), and another moved in (again, I'll say no more). I realized what I value in shared spaces, and I have not had any of that here. I remained unemployed for the longest 65 days of my life, in which I maxed out my credit cards, contemplated suicide more than once, heard mostly unloving recommendations to give up on this first step of my adult life, and broke my own heart which led to a nearly-three-week excursion across five states that led to the near depletion of my bank accounts. I learned of the death of a mentor and friend during that adventure, and his funeral was the first and only reunion thus far with the strongest work-family (and perhaps otherwise) that I've ever had. I've dealt with sudden sickness (and unpaid days off), and I'm currently dealing with symptoms that nobody can accurately diagnose and treat. I switched birth control pills with the hope that the new prescription would reduce my anxiety levels. It did. But it also increased all of my depressive symptoms, leading me to practicing riskier behaviors than before, leaving work in the middle of the day to cry for hours, and skipping meals for days. (Yes, I stopped taking it). The list of dilemmas, predicaments, and struggles could continue--and they will. That's life.

But two Fridays ago, I finally felt grounded. The universe confirmed the positivity of the feeling with a simple action. After five months of looking for literal proof of being where my feet are, I tripped over myself and noticed this. I made my friends stop stumbling to the next stop so I could snap this photo.

Those who know me at all know that I collect photos of my feet in cities that hold significance to me. I started this when I visited my soul city (Portland, OR) for the first time. At the time, I associated an Irish proverb with the practice: "Your feet will bring you to where your heart is." Two weekends ago my feet wandered to new-to-me places with the people I'm closest with here. I laughed, smiled, and danced more than I have in months. I woke up the next morning with the feeling of happy exhaustion that I missed so much. While I've struggled in the last five days, I've focused on acknowledging that happiness.

Alas, I've also acknowledged that my happiness does consist of contributions from people who are hundreds of miles away. With both planting phrases in mind, I wonder when my heart, soul, and feet will all exist in the same place without frequent disruption. I have (mostly) accepted the constant moving, but I hope to one day feel the calmness of home--a concept I thought I once had, but have redefined as something more. All of this comes from the fact that if these last five months have taught me anything that hasn't already been mentioned, it's that perhaps Christina Yang from Grey's Anatomy was right..."sometimes home isn't four walls; it's two eyes and a heartbeat."

I know, without a sliver of doubt, that my home is out there, exploring and growing and changing the world. I wish I was there too. Until then, I hope these newfound footholds remain strong. If not, I've learned that I have the strength to make more on my own.