The Danger of Space

One of the things I love most about my life right now is how much space I have. I don’t mean, like, square footage… but, you know… space. The kind that married people and parents and roommates all crave because they can’t find any, no matter how hard they look. That kind of space.

I completely get that *sometimes* desperate need for space to just be and breathe in. I spent years in YWAM (read: six women in one room with three sets of bunk beds and one bathroom with a tub – no shower – that drained verrry slowly) and NYC (read: crazy expensive apartments made affordable only by cramming too many people into tiny spaces so we could divide the astronomical rent several ways). I craved alone time and coveted privacy. I learned the value of it, learned to fight for it – to find it and build it into my life despite the impossible-ish circumstances. But it always required an intentional effort.

Now I’m swimming in space. Life has done a 180 and my intentional efforts are now focused on getting out with other people so that I don’t become “creepy, never-wash-my-socks, recluse” girl. I come home to an empty apartment, no one (except *maybe* my boss) expects me to be anywhere regularly, I have hours to myself in the evenings and weekends at my disposal… oh the luxury! When I first moved into my apartment, I spent the first couple of months on cloud nine relishing in my newfound space. It was automatic and available and I soaked it all in. In a sense, it truly does feed my introverted soul. It breathes life into me. It is freedom and peace and sanity.

And then, sometimes, it isn't.

Sometimes it feels like... well... it feels like isolation. There's something about the forced intimacy of "family" - whatever that looks like in different stages of life - that is super safe. When you live together, have expectations of one another, cook together, check in with each other when you’re going to be late - it can feel oppressive, sure. But it can also feel like relief, like belonging, like security. I've come home many times to roommates (even on nights I would've preferred to come home to no one) who powerfully met me in that very natural way that only the people you see every day can meet you. With food and drinks and smokes and laughter and the ease that comes with soaking in the presence of the people who sleep in the bedroom next to yours, who drink from the same carton of milk and shop at the same bodega across the street. I don't care if it sounds trivial and insignificant... there is something to that.

And the thing is, I’m missing that. I think my “swimming in space” has turned into “drowning in space” and I'm seeing the value of forced community like I couldn't before. The in-your-face-and-space reality of people, the safety of knowing that at the end of the day you have a legitimate spot waiting for you... it’s actually a privilege. I'm bumping around in my oh-so-glorious, much-coveted-by-many-of-my-friends space, thinking maybe I made too much out of it after all. Maybe I was wrong.

(At this point, I realize that all my friends with spouses and kids and all my friends sharing bedrooms in mini-apartments in the city are shaking their heads and muttering to themselves, "She has no idea what she's talking about. That girl's got it made". Don't misunderstand me. I do appreciate what I have at this point in my life. And yet...)

Our obsession with having our own space, our personal bubbles, our independence – it’s so North American! I’m not saying the option to tap into all of that isn’t necessary. It is. I need access to alone time (read: dance-party-in-my-underwear time) in order to recharge. But I’ve realized that the option of not-space is just as necessary.

Because not-space is where life happens - in the small moments, the unplanned gatherings, the spontaneous meals. It happens when you've had a shit day and you're hiding out in your room and someone shows up at the door with a beer and a brownie. It happens when a few of you go out on the deck for a smoke and don't come back in for three hours. It happens when you pool your edible resources and have a picnic feast on the living room floor. These are the moments I miss as I meet friends for drinks in bars, for dinners in restaurants, at previously determined times and locations. I miss the sweatpants moments, the real moments that suddenly appear - unscheduled - as you're moseying along through day-to-day life.

I need not-space. I need the presence of people in my life who remember how grand and glorious my shine is, who remind me of what all I can be. That's the danger inherent in too much space: I start to feel like I have nothing to give when really… I've just forgotten how valuable I am because it’s been far too long since I’ve been met.