Alana's Dharma Blog

For those of you who are just tuning-in, my new home, New York, is not all I had hoped it would be. Its not what I had imagined. See before the move, I thought my life here would be fun and exciting. I thought my house would be mine, be beautiful, and make life easy. I had a fantasy of Eric and my loving charmed life together, of us embracing the challenges that arose, like a fun new adventure. I was happy, optimistic. I was hopeful.

But then, once I was on the ground, my imagination shifted. Suddenly I started having nightmares of buildings going up to block my windows, of construction disasters, of going broke trying to make it here in NY. I envision the city as a dark, loud and ugly hole that I can only escape on short vacations. I worry it will change me, that the struggle of living here will ruin my relationship.  I feel miserable, trapped. I feel hopeless.

The truth however is New York is what it is — a place with 2 sides, good and bad, a place that is constantly moving and shifting and changing — it abided by this truth before I moved here and it abides by it now that I am here. It abides by it totally independent of me. What has changed is my imagination. When I saw all rainbows and unicorns I was happy. When I saw all tar-pits and booby traps I became sad. My imagination flings me about, takes my heart on an emotional roller coaster and, here is the kicker, what I imagine isn’t even real. Clearly its not real or the imagination wouldn’t have shifted so easily. It wouldn’t have been so one sided and then the other sided. What I imagined to be true would have been true, and that would be the end of the story.

I cause my roller coaster. I cause the suffering of the continual ups and downs. The excitement and disappointment. The hope and the fear. I cause it all with my imagination even though, in reality, all these imaginings, they don’t impact the outcome. They don’t tell how things really are, or predict how they will be (see Killing the Crazy entry for a more detailed analysis of how I divorced my emotion of fear with a necessary outcome. A similar matrix can be applied for how I imagine things will be and how they turn out) .  Basically, my suffering is my own creation.

As part of our move to New York, Eric and I bought a new home in Lower Manhattan. We had seen it once, while he was here interviewing with his new company, and we fell in love at first sight. As soon as we stepped into the sunny loft space we began to imagine our life there  — Eric cooking in the chef’s kitchen, me lounging by the fireplace, all the rooms open to each other so we could feel together even when were doing different things. Even the decor of the former couple was so ‘our style’, funky and artsy and eclectic. It felt like we could just slip in and take it all over, that we could have the charmed life it looked like they had from their photos and stuff. I used the rupa to paint a picture and I believed it with all my heart.

When Eric got the job offer we put an offer in on the home. We didn’t shop around, didn’t bother to try to understand New York neighborhoods or real estate. We were told the house had lot line windows (windows which could need to be boarded anytime if the building next to us is ever sold and developed higher than 5 stories), we knew it needed some work, clearly it was a bit quaint, but we “knew” it was just perfect for us. There was simply no convincing us that the future would be anything other than we imagined it, that the house (which we owned after all) wouldn’t mold to our expectations and be exactly what we wanted it to be. In other words, we were fools with a permanent view of the future and an irrational belief the world, or at least our home, would revolve around us and be in our control..but I get ahead of my story here.

Even before we signed the final papers we started to get jitters. When move-in day came, it became clear that the house size wasn’t just quaint, it was small, too small. The open floor plan had only one small closest and no cabinets, no place to put our stuff. The couple before had ordered their life to fit the house, they made it look easy and sweet. But with their stuff gone, surrounded by my boxes, it suddenly felt impossible.

It also became clear quite quickly that the place needed work, a lot of work, to make it workable for us. We sort of knew we would need some, we thought it would be a fun project to do together, a design to make the place really ours. But after interviewing a few contractors, the extent of the project, and the cost became clear. Suddenly we are looking at all new appliances, a wall getting moved, a flooring riddle I won’t even get into, lighting, electric, and building-wide projects of patching leaks, and updating a lobby, and fixing a creaky old elevator.

With each ‘discovery’ my optimism faded more and more; a place, a project, a home that had so recently been, was supposed to be, a joy was morphing into a burden. Still, in my heart, I kept feeling like the house, its mine, there is something I can do to fix it, to organize it, to make it work, to force it to be what I want it to be.

I was taking a break from unpacking, lazing in a spot of sun one of my lot line windows let in and it dawned on me. My house, my enjoyment of it (or at least of its sunniness), its totally out of my control. Even if I can renovate the place, elfa out every nook and cranny to organize and make space, I am one building sale, one ambitious development project away from literally losing my sunshine. I was crushed. Suddenly I hated the place, hated myself for buying it, the picture I painted was shattered. I saw so clearly that its not really mine. When I thought it would fit my image, play by my rules, exist on my terms I could pretend it was mine. I wanted it. But when I see that something about it I value so much can be ‘taken’ any minute, I don’t even want it any more. This dark-at-any-moment house doesn’t serve me anymore (even though its still light right now, even though its a perfectly fine place to live), it doesn’t bolster me or  sell the deeper more critical picture– ALANA master of her universe, goddess of her relationship, home and life, buttoned up and in control, all I want to be, and all others want me to be, and ME ME ME I I I AM.

But here is the crazy part: None of the information was new. I knew the size of the place, square footage was clearly placed in the listing. I knew of at least some of the upgrades, it doesn’t take an architect to spot appliances older than me. I knew about the windows, it was disclosed.  The house, it never lied to me. It told me the same truth that every object in this world screams loud and clear for anyone to hear — “I will change, fade, decay, cease to be what you want at some moment in time. I abide by my own rules, am subject to my own causes that won’t just adhere to your terms (subtext:  who are you anyway, crazy lady, to think your so special that you can control my fate).” But I had let my own picture, that I had painted all by myself, lie to me. Actually,  I used my picture to lie to myself. When, seriously when, am I going to learn that I am the liar and the sucker who believes my own lies? I believe even though my lies hurt me.

I am surrounded by, swimming in, a sea of my stuff. I can look at each item and remember  how badly I wanted it back when I bought it. My heart believed that that table/rug/lamp would solve my problems, fit perfectly in my space, make my home beautiful. That by extension, these items would make me a sort of person — the sort of person that values beauty, surrounds myself with it, cares enough to have a lovely home filled with lovely things. An adult, a non-slob, someone tasteful but unique.  I wanted these things and I bought them. But the story isn’t over…