Dustbunnies

I'm in the final days of living in my apartment. Over the past three days, I've watched the last few years of my life walk slowly out of my apartment. The chairs, bookcases, tables that I have accumulated over the years have become a snapshot of the past few months of my life. I am blessed that I have friends who care so much about me and have taken so many of these things in trust. I am comforted knowing I can always come home to the things I love the most.

Tonight I sent into that trust a number of things. And tonight I sat at my trusty little table that I've had since 1999 and that my parents had for many years before that with my best friend. We looked around my empty apt, that will become emptier each day, and assessed this year.

Things and people have been lost, in the past 12 months. Friends lost, whose deaths I didn't know whether I would be able to pull myself out from. My job. My apartment. What I first thought was my dignity. And as I sit here in this almost empty apartment, I realize the things I felt were lost, never were. I have this group of people who have risen together to ensure that the things I love have a home, that I have a home. That I can leave this city, but roots still remain. I have a group of gals who celebrate, versus dwell on the past, but who let me love a few material things and promise to keep them safe. Who know that there is history attached to this apartment and the contents of it.

I look around tonight and I am sad. As I sit at my little table that I love so much I am sad that there is an end, but I also know that it signifies a beginning. In my ideal world, I would never have to leave this perch--a place where I have counseled and listened to my gals, where they have held me in my most infinite grief, where I've had endless calls with my sister, mother, brother, cousin and so many more, where HB and I have watched as a snow-globe raged around us. But everything comes to an end, and it's about how you deal with that.

In my little apartment where life has unfolded so significantly and so beautifully, I am sad to leave it, but I know this only means another door opens.

2010

Happy New Year, everyone.

As suspected, not much has changed. But some things have been reaffirmed. In this new year, I've been reminded of a few important things. One is that jobs come and go, security can fade, but friends never seem to walk away.

New years eve was originally going to be spent with my kitties in my apartment with a six-dollar bottle of champagne, Kathy Griffin and Anderson Cooper. At the last minute, plans changed, and tickets were purchased for a party at the faux speakeasy The Gibson in D.C. with three other friends. We dressed all sparkly and fun to not necessarily ring in the new year, but to usher the old out with good drinks, good company, and no fuzzy animals to make me feel more depressed than ever.

It was a great time. Lots of laughter, lots of good cocktails, much revelry, and most importantly, great great friends. It was a great way to ring in a new year.

You know, I realized something recently. Most notably after the death of my friend. Each of us are individually blessed to have people. Our people. My people. Some may have many, others few, but we have people. I have a wide group of people. I have my D.C. people, my V.T people, my family people, my U.V.A. people, my Peace Corps people, my Leahy people. I have people who are collectively weaving a safety net for me, who won't guarantee it will hold, but who will do everything in their power to try and make it. I have people who are willing to wait on me, and believe in what I do. My people don't discourage my dreams. They cheer loudly, they push me, they link arms and support me.

I have this buoy of love that allows me to become a similar buoy for strangers. It is the greatest gift I could imagine. I know I talk a lot about friends on this site, but when you're in the trenches you realize who fortunate you are. And I am rich with friends.

And I love them all. Happy New Years, all.