Sept. 9, 2020—

If you look closely, just beyond the green tin roof, there’s a thin stripe of purple lined with a sliver of burnt sienna.

My place has an ocean view. But I didn’t know it yet. I thought it was another roof.

At the time that I snapped this shot, I had just spent the day “settling” into my new place on this tiny Big Island in the middle of the Pacific, and the quarantine hadn’t gotten to me yet. But all in my space that’s less than what I want it to be had.

Some walls need a new coat of paint.

The light bulbs are the harsh, almost fluorescent coloring that somehow makes the hallways feel dark and dingier than they actually are.

It’s hot. The kind of hot that is inescapable.

“You’re sticky,” he said, and I felt a tinge of resentment. Not actually because of the comment but because this wasn’t what I’d expected from my two video tours.

This is going to take more effort than I thought.

I’ve noticed already a tendency to look at what is less than ideal more than the abundance of things that are going so right—all those blessings.

I’ve noticed a level of attachment to belongings and appearance that is stronger than I was previously aware of. I see my cousin and one of her friends on Instagram moving into these seemingly extravagant, magazine-feature worthy homes and I want to keep up in my own way. But it’s not all for me. It’s for the advertisement of “I’ve got my sh*t together,” which, if I’m honest, I don’t. Not even close.

I’ve noticed, oppositely in sentiment, the great importance I place on having a space that feels like home, and what elements make a dwelling more than a house for me.

This is my third move in three years, but it hasn’t hit me yet. Not on the 9th of September.

On the 9th of September, my beau came home from errands and catching that same sunset from beyond where I can currently step while being the good girl that I am and obeying 14 days of mandatory quarantine. And I smiled at him, when I did, grateful that we live here. Together.