Feeling right

I've technically lived by myself for over eight months now. However, with my August spent at my parents', and numerous house guests in the fall, I've been living by myself for only about three and a half months. Occasionally, I still think it would be nice to have a roommate again. Then, I would not feel as though I'm gradually becoming one of those crazy pet owners who coddle their pets and talk to them incessantly. But, there are also lots and lots of advantages to being by myself. I truly value the time I have in solitude. There's no one to compete with over the favourite spot on the couch, no one to fight with for shower-time. I can leave the sink full of dishes without feeling guilty. I can vacuum only when I feel like it. (My place is actually remarkably clean, when I don't have anyone to clean up after except for myself. I sometimes leave dishes unwashed just because I can, but never to the point of grossness. And I tend to vacuum more now that I live by myself – I see it as one of my only forms of exercise.) My washing machine now doubles up as my clothes-hamper, and I run the load whenever it gets full. (I know, I know, I should sort my laundry, but I don't.) I can walk around in my underwear, and I do, with increasing frequency, usually between my bedroom and the dryer, which has doubled-up as clothing storage. (Now you understand why I always look unkempt, with the wrinkles in my clothes. I call it my “natural” look.) I can play badly on the piano without fear of disturbing a poor slumbering soul.

I find that I've been more emotional when I'm here by myself. And it's not necessarily bad. Yes, I've found myself crying over little things, but, I think there's “good” crying too. Today, when I was reading some poetry, I started tearing up as I read Cummings's “i carry your heart with me.” I remember the first time I read that poem: I had thought it was so corny and sappy, really quite laughable. I had always loved Cummings, but not that particular poem. Today, however, it has transformed into an expression of a love that is so complete and beautiful. (I'm beginning to worry about what is happening, whether I'm buckling to the pressures of conventionality. At this rate, I might even begin to like Valentine's Day, which I had sworn never to do.) And then, there are those times when I laugh at nothing too – like the time I snapped seemingly hundreds of photos of my shadow on the wall, when the sun came back and streamed through the windows in torrents of gold. I made silly shadow puppets and talked in stupid little voices. I spun myself around in erratic circles, watching the dust particles in the light, as I had done when I was a little girl. I could do that only when I live by myself. It's a shame, really, that we guard ourselves and don't let tears and laughter flow freely when others are around. It's a shame that, in the presence of others, we always feel that we must be able to explain our emotions, and if we can't, then we better not show those emotions. It would be good to be able to cry and laugh, for no reason other than it feels right.