"...Not all those who wander are lost..."
-"All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter", JRR Tolkien
For the last day and a half, my housemates and I have been collegiate nomads. Not in the globetrotting sense, but in the our-house-on-campus-is-indefinitely-out-of-commission sense.
At 4 p.m. two days ago, we were informed that our house must be gutted, vacuumed, and vacated by 9 a.m. the following morning. Fumigation. A precautionary measure against a potential bedbug infestation. Everything out. Everything bagged. Everything quarantined. We couldn't believe the first week of the semester started this way.
Shock. Frustration. Panic. Catatonia. Focus.
With the help of faithful friends and supportive staff, our house exploded in a colorful, chaotic 4-hour-corral of clothes, books, and belongings into bags outside of the house. Vacuums roared, stereos bellowed, and footsteps thundered. Amidst the cacophony, I robotically peeled my decorations off of our walls and haphazardly tossed vibrant swaths of cloth into a Rubbermaid container. Hardly aware of my own movement, I watched "home" retreat into boxes and bags.
We awoke the next morning to impersonal walls, cramped furniture, and blazing heat. Clothing was treated as contaminated and I felt like a walking bomb. In my great foresight, I packed away all of my clothes before laying out an outfit for the next day. My textbooks, too. Nice. Now any sense of normalcy outside the house was tucked away in the formidable pile of bagged belongings.
It's truly surprising how displaced you can feel on a small, community oriented campus when your sense of home is removed. Sure, our house is still nestled sleepily over the bank and among the trees, but home is not there. Home is in a disorganized assortment of garbage bags sitting in the box truck outside the house. Home is hidden. Home is unattainable, for now.
I am exhausted. I would never have thought that decorations or organization could bring so much structure and relief to the pace of life. I think of the people who feel this everyday, and I am ashamed.
24 hours later, I am able to unpack a good deal of my clothes and sleep in my bed with the heat turned back down to a more palatable temperature. At the end of the day, I have a place to be, even if it's not a home right this moment.
I am hesitant to say that I can even begin to empathize with displaced individuals, but I feel that I at least have a mild appreciation for the feeling. For now. In a week, things will be back on walls and I will have a home-base. I already know how readily I will forget and move on, and I am a bit disappointed. Moreover, I realize that my sense of home is very tied to material order. Seems shamefully materialistic, but perhaps that's simply a fact of the matter. I'm not sure how I feel about it.
Sorry Tolkien- it seems I'm a temporary nomad. In a sense, I'm wandering and I'm certainly feeling lost.
-"All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter", JRR Tolkien
For the last day and a half, my housemates and I have been collegiate nomads. Not in the globetrotting sense, but in the our-house-on-campus-is-indefinitely-out-of-commission sense.
At 4 p.m. two days ago, we were informed that our house must be gutted, vacuumed, and vacated by 9 a.m. the following morning. Fumigation. A precautionary measure against a potential bedbug infestation. Everything out. Everything bagged. Everything quarantined. We couldn't believe the first week of the semester started this way.
Shock. Frustration. Panic. Catatonia. Focus.
With the help of faithful friends and supportive staff, our house exploded in a colorful, chaotic 4-hour-corral of clothes, books, and belongings into bags outside of the house. Vacuums roared, stereos bellowed, and footsteps thundered. Amidst the cacophony, I robotically peeled my decorations off of our walls and haphazardly tossed vibrant swaths of cloth into a Rubbermaid container. Hardly aware of my own movement, I watched "home" retreat into boxes and bags.
We awoke the next morning to impersonal walls, cramped furniture, and blazing heat. Clothing was treated as contaminated and I felt like a walking bomb. In my great foresight, I packed away all of my clothes before laying out an outfit for the next day. My textbooks, too. Nice. Now any sense of normalcy outside the house was tucked away in the formidable pile of bagged belongings.
It's truly surprising how displaced you can feel on a small, community oriented campus when your sense of home is removed. Sure, our house is still nestled sleepily over the bank and among the trees, but home is not there. Home is in a disorganized assortment of garbage bags sitting in the box truck outside the house. Home is hidden. Home is unattainable, for now.
I am exhausted. I would never have thought that decorations or organization could bring so much structure and relief to the pace of life. I think of the people who feel this everyday, and I am ashamed.
24 hours later, I am able to unpack a good deal of my clothes and sleep in my bed with the heat turned back down to a more palatable temperature. At the end of the day, I have a place to be, even if it's not a home right this moment.
I am hesitant to say that I can even begin to empathize with displaced individuals, but I feel that I at least have a mild appreciation for the feeling. For now. In a week, things will be back on walls and I will have a home-base. I already know how readily I will forget and move on, and I am a bit disappointed. Moreover, I realize that my sense of home is very tied to material order. Seems shamefully materialistic, but perhaps that's simply a fact of the matter. I'm not sure how I feel about it.
Sorry Tolkien- it seems I'm a temporary nomad. In a sense, I'm wandering and I'm certainly feeling lost.
