December 5, 2013

The Empty Restlessness

The thing I feel in my bones, the thing that feels most true, is that I will not be happy in any living situation until I dwell in a tiny house that I designed and built. And until I've parked it out in a city where I am both close to nature and culture, a place where I fit into a community, a place where my opinions and my voice and my experiences are heard and respected, until then, I feel in my bones an emptiness. I feel those pieces missing from my life. Which is why I am taking the first steps toward making it happen.

I've downsized quite a bit, and it feels a little more freeing to have less stuff. But that feeling only lasts for a short while until I remember all the REST of the stuff I still have. There is still way too much clutter and unused, unwanted items piled out of sight. I'm continuing to unveil more little corners in my life where I've shoved things away, forgotten about them, and now have to sort them out and make disappear. I'm looking forward to moving to my new temporary living fix with significantly fewer items, although I will continue the slow and steady downsizing process while there too.

I'm temporarily moving to my Dad's house (45 minutes north of San Francisco) so that I can live rent-free, save up some money while I commute to my job in the city, and if I play my cards right, build my tiny house in their driveway. I'd then move the house to where I might find my little dream community. Somewhere near a job that will either give me the most creative satisfaction I can ask for and/or where I do work with sense of purpose. Something that gives me the sense that by the end of the day, I'll feel like I did good. But in the meantime, when I'm not actively and literally making progress toward that goal, that emptiness is dragging on with only dreams forming above and a restlessness to get going. To get building.

Brooks Park, San Francisco

August 26, 2013

The Beginning

I'm typing this here, perched on my bed in my little rented room with no windows (but a skylight) in San Francisco, CA. I live in Ingleside so it's always foggy, even on the rare days that the sun warms the rest of the city. It's late August, and the nighttime air occasionally drifts down upon me, reminding me the city's Indian summer is close. And I think of the ocean nearby. If it's a clear day, all I have to do is walk up or down Faxon to the nearest cross street, and look for where the bright blue sky meets the sparkling darker blue water. I feel grounded when I know where the ocean is, when I can see it, and feel it. The one perk about Ingleside is that I can smell the ocean on clear days. That very specific salty-sticky breeze reminds me that I am human, and I am standing on the planet Earth. And I feel grounded.

But right now, feeling grounded is more like feeling run into the ground. The weight of rent due, student loan payments, and the high cost of living and eating and shopping and doing anything at all in the city is too much to bear. I'm not cut out for regular work. And I'm not cut out for paying rent.
SO. I've recently come to the realization that I need to build myself a tiny house on wheels. It's going to resemble this:

(Photo Credit: Tammy Strobel)

Everything is pointing me toward designing, building and living in my own tiny home. I'm obsessed with home improvement, I'm a highly sensitive person, I'm extremely particular about how I like things, and I hate moving but I love to explore. With the money that I'll save on rent I'll pay toward my student loan debt, and with the time I'll have by not working 5 days a week I'll be able to indulge in all my art projects, venture away into the world, or quietly sit at home while the world goes on around me.

I've bought plans from Tumbleweed Tiny House Company and I took their workshop on how to build one in case you're like me and have no idea where to start.
I'm. So. Excited.