I love where I live. Even though I did not choose to live there. It was more a matter of circumstance and necessity, one that I have grown accustomed to over time.
The shape of my home is pod-like. Just big enough for me, my bed and my clothes.
She keeps me safe and warm and cozy at night under blankets familiar and worn and warm. An old and worn sleeping bag serves as my comforter. It was the last thing my father gave me when he died, so no matter how worn out it gets, I keep mending it. My baby blanket, the last quilt I made with my grandma and an afghan she knitted just for me are layered and in their place. The books in the current reading list are stashed in the corner by the pillows, along with a reading light and a fresh bag of chips. The clothes are stashed in a hammock, tossed in disarray. The black sketchbook sits at the end of the bed, off to the side, still waiting for its first mark. The plain, non-descript, blue curtains stay closed unless she is on the road and I need to see around me.
Some would think my home is alternative, but I cringe at the thought of the alternative to living in The Escape Pod. She is safe and shiny and blue.
I dream of taking her to Yosemite, to Mono Lake, to Big Sur, and to Joshua Tree. To sleep under the stars. To become a part of the landscape. To awake in the morning anywhere but here. To make my coffee on my camp stove and drink it from my yellow coffee mug while watching the sun rise over the desert or the mountains. I fantasize about crossing the border into Mexico to drive the Baja and on down to Tulum. I think she would like to even see Tierra del Fuego and Mt. Denali. I know I would.