To Have and To Hold

At the beginning of last year my life was divided between two separate storage units, in two different countries. And then, partly out of frustration and partly as an effort to finally be done with ever-escalating costs, I decided to rid myself of one. However the feasibility of transporting all the contents of the unit to another county was nil.

I made the painful decision to sell everything, only keeping small heartfelt mementoes that could fit into a suitcase. In the past when I heard of people “selling everything they owned” I imagined garage sales and Facebook Marketplace. But I didn’t have the chance or time to do that - I instead paid a shady group of characters, who rummaged through dresser drawers when they thought I wasn’t looking, a couple hundred dollars to roughly toss my once prized belongings into a flatbed and drive them away.

Among these items was a 7ft solid oak frame leaning mirror. I had found it at Ross 12 years ago, on sale for $120. When I found it, I had just come from church; I was in a bright pink linen shift dress, and a pair of satin Escada strappy heels in a matching color. The discovery of the mirror stopped me in my tracks. After purchasing, I carried the hundred-plus pound item out the door only to realize that it absolutely would not fit into the car. As if on cue from a scene in a romantic comedy, a truck of three men pulled up and asked if I needed help. Yes. I did. They offered to deliver it to my apartment. My then boyfriend, who had lagged behind me, cheerfully took them up on their offer. I pretended not to notice how awkward the situation had become. The gentlemen kindly delivered the mirror to our second story apartment.

Another piece which was hauled away was a $5 wooden coffee table that I had found at the Salvation Army on Lytton Springs Road. I took it home, sanded it, and painted it in chic black and white stripes. I loved how it looked when displaying a vase full of pink peonies.

For my birthday one year, my mother bought me a cream chaise, in a Parisian motif. I was so excited and surprised that I carried it up the two flights of stairs myself. It was mine and I couldn’t wait to fully own it in the comfort of my home. It was one of the first pieces the shady characters tossed.

One item that wasn’t hauled away was the antique mirror-topped brass bar cart. It doubled as a serving tray that could be removed from its stand. I imported that to the foreign country that I call home. However while moving that item a year later from my two-story apartment and into storage, it fell and shattered.

And then, last week while visiting the unit to retrieve some items to make my small room more comfortable, I saw it: my beautiful one-of-a-kind, hand painted solid wood desk. It had been a gift; it was an item of refuge. It was where I taught myself how to use watercolors, where I journaled about my day, where I worked, and took my virtual therapy sessions. In my downtown apartment I had placed it against the wall, next to soaring windows dressed in gauzy curtains that fluttered against my skin with the gentlest breeze. The desk was now swollen due to water damage from a recent storm, and a hole in the roof. Panicked, my friend and I carried it out, propping it against the wall and atop a towel to protect it from the gravel. I turned back to assess the damage to my framed watercolor paintings. And just as I was exiting the unit, before I could prevent it, I saw my desk slam into the ground, resulting in multiple cracks, splinters, and chips of wood.

This is a kind of loss that for me, lands symbolically. I am beginning to feel that my very sense of home and safety is in upheaval. And I do not know how to hold on to it.

Even as a little girl, I have sought safety in my surroundings: from hiding in the attic, to the hidden waterfall behind our property, I have always dreamed of a safe landing place that was hidden away from the rest of the world. A place where I could gather together my small trinkets, my anchors of special meaning, and protect them in the way that I had wished to be protected from the world.

In my small studio on 8th Street, I had two tiny ceramic sparrows that I would move about - sometimes I would perch them atop picture frames, or tuck them away half hidden under the leaf of a monstera plant. I was playing a secret game of hide and seek - and giving the flightless birds a chance to explore. I still have one with me today.

From the water damaged storage unit, I have taken the stained and blurred watercolor paintings to my room. The glass is splattered with droplets of dirty water, the matting is wrinkled and warped. I want to draw meaning and moral; blending the bleeding colors with symbolic purpose. I find myself wanting to source justification in the blurred details…but my imagination falls flat, and I’m simply sad. It’s the same with my desk - I am mourning the life I had hoped it would represent. Everything is chipping, splintering, bleeding, and warping out from underneath me. And try as I might, I can’t seem to stop it.

There is a part of me that would love to have a home. A place where I could rest and exhale. But the problem with having a habitual dwelling place is that…well, you are habitually there. Over the years that has betrayed me in profound ways. In 2019 I acquired a stalker; and it took a year and a half to win a court case for a 5-year restraining order. Then a year later my home was raided by local law enforcement; and my sparrows were witness to the violent violation that ensued. And then - exactly 364 days later, a man systematically opened every box, envelope, and journal, counted every dollar and wine bottle that I owned, and cataloged my belongings into a spreadsheet. And placed them into storage.

I made the best of it, the storage unit. I arranged it like a little living room - I set up my clothing rack, and hung my favorite pieces up: the yellow chiffon dress that reminded me of the gown in Frederic Leighton’s Flaming June. The coat that I bought in Paris. I arranged my dresser for easy access, arranging and propping up picture frames, and set out my handmade ceramic bowls, filling them with jewelry and heart-shaped sunglasses. Some days I would sit in my Birthday Chair and spend hours reading. I just wanted to be with my belongings.

The cornerstones of furniture are gone now. I wish I had been able to give them a better ending. I wish I had been able to give them homes that were filled with warmth and appreciation; to give them to families that would treat them like heirlooms, imbued with history and lore.

For the one remaining sparrow, it is here in the room with me. It is perched on a shelf watching over my shoulder as I type. She’s international now, having survived two storage units. She’s not free, though. Soon she’ll return to her box, and patiently wait for my return.

I’ll be happy to see her.

Further reading: