I keep wanting to comment on my search for my new home. But, each day brings new feelings, push pulls, and a queasy feeling in my gut.
Two weeks ago I found a sublet in Nyack on craigslist. Emails went back and forth between myself and the homeowner--there were a few phone calls. There was a quick walk thru the house--owner not present, then, a face to face.
What there wasn't, was a credential or reference or piece of paper or anything I could look at and say, someone trustworthy knows this person. That my potential landlord and I found one another on craigslist...well, when it was time to put pen to paper and sign, things got tense. I presented my important papers; when I asked for her ID, nothing doing.
As much as I want to make this change, leave Manhattan (especially now that I've said my goodbyes...), explore a bit of the world, albeit still in New York, the lack of concrete evidence to warrant my trust, my safety, undid the almost-deal. (The little matter of initial ins and outs changing didn't help...)
I've been wondering for many years, what is home? I write about this quandary here, on my blog, and for years, it was the question I tried to answer in my memoir. Just a few days ago--in my lovely image of walking along a trail to Yoga class--I thought I found my safe little corner of the world. But, the truth I tried to not acknowledge was that I didn't feel safe.
Going forward: I'll try to remember that I'm the same person who blogged two weeks ago (see below) that moving was akin to being deported to a concentration camp. I carry a serious history; I don't have to live it out, but it seems I should at least nod to its existence.
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