Witch One Is Me?

You know I am running out of things to say when I start blogging about my dreams. But I woke up this morning and it took me a good five minutes before it started to come to me. I dreamt it had rained. I dreamt I woke up to a leaking apartment. There were puddles on the carpet, mold coming through in large black rings on the wall, and a roof that looked as if it were about to cave in. Maybe it was the episode of Lost I watched last night or maybe it was the collection of short stories I am reading about food, or maybe it was just the momentous amount of laundry I have been washing, drying and folding.

In my dream I was distressed. My apartment had finally become my home. I enjoyed no more than to lounge in its bath, cook in its kitchen, lie down on its carpet and stare at its stucco ceiling. I had laid claim to the space: taking down the proletarian supplied Venetian blinds and putting up the three-weekends-to-complete-curtain-project sewn by none other. I had changed the direction in which the refrigerator door opened, I installed a hanging pot rack, I frosted the window panes in the front door for privacy.

A home. The hearth. My little nest. The place where I repose. Where I wake up Sunday mornings, make coffee and get back in to bed to read. Where I can pull back the curtains and sit on the couch and enjoy the light poring in, the blue sky above my head, the birds freaking out in the trees just outside. At this point I would hate to move. After all the letting go of stuff—years accumulated—so that I could finally fit into this postage-stamp space, after all the living in boxes, things spread out between two cities, after all the shuttling between places, the driving hither and forth, the nomadic it's only temporary until I find my own place existence, I have finally arrived. And I'm not about to let a little crack in the surface kick me out.