11 More Days

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Really it’s 12 more days, but it’s 10pm on October 19th and the day is basically over and by the time I share this it’ll be the 20th. So…11 more days.

I think when any significant change is rounding home base, there are particular moments that deliver you from “idea” to “reality”. When you’re taking all of your stuff off the walls and trying somehow to assign a dollar value to your most precious artifacts, suddenly “I’m leaving soon” becomes “Holy fuck. I’m really leaving." The shockwave of that awareness finally integrating is enough to reorganize the marrow in your bones.


At the moment I’m sitting on my green velvet sofa for what is one of the last times before it goes to its new home tomorrow. Listen, I KNOW how it sounds to get emotional about a couch but the things I feel about this stupid fucking piece of furniture are so profound and so deep. Being in this room with Apollo at my side, it could bring me to my knees. Two years ago, this room was all I wanted in the world. A place where I could live alone and stay a while with this four-legged Spirit Guide curled up close enough that I could feel the humidity of his exhales on my skin.

GOODNESS how I played hardball with The Universe for this sanctuary of mine. My dream of all dreams - to live alone in West Palm Beach - specifically El Cid -  close to the water, in an old historic building, sunlight pouring into every room, cool floors of some kind, did I mention ALONE? Not until I let go of EVERYTHING I needed to release at the time, everything that kept me small, everything that wasn’t in resounding soul-alignment, did The U come through with the supreme gift of everything I wanted. I manifested the flying FUCK out of this place. Having the key in my hand solidified my belief that everything I want on this most human of planes is possible, and that The Universe really does have my back, and that I am powerful as shit.

And now here we are, less than 9 days left in my little slice of paradise (I’ll leave my apartment sooner than I leave West Palm) to move on to…well, nothing concrete. No home of my own. No constant companion at my side. Just an open road and a knowing that it’s time. What the fuck am I doing? Listening. Right. Right? Right.

I love it here. This 700 square foot space knows all of my secrets. My tears have stained this carpet. The chilled, checkerboard floors have risen up to meet me in moments of joy, rapture, unfathomable physical pain, unrelenting emotional pain, grief, despair, connection, celebration, sadness, release. I know exactly how it feels to sit and meditate in this living room when its dark outside. There are few things I know more intimately than the deep orange gradient painted on the wall by a salt lamp.


Every bit of occupied real estate on the walls was a carefully chosen resting place for a photo or a painting that I REMEMBER choosing. Tonight before landing on this green velvet couch, I walked through with a stick of incense recalling every memory tied to the treasures that hang in this lion’s den. With my eyes open, I stood so vividly and viscerally in those memories. Sometimes things are just things, and other times, our things are a reminder of the wonderous life we’ve lived. And how lucky we are to be experiencing that life as ourselves.

What I feel tonight is a beautifully potent melancholy, that I should really just call a spade and label as just outright sadness. I am sad to leave. I am sad to put a price tag on my memories and let them walk out the door with only a few bucks to mark that they were here with me. I am sad that Sarah Claire Smith sat on my floor and snuggled my sweet boy for probably the last time today. I am sad that everything I ever wanted isn’t what I want anymore. I am sad to see my walls turn solid white again. I am sad to see my home become…not my home anymore. I am sad. I am just…sad.

When you announce that you’re leaving your home town to take off on an adventure with no identified ending, the thing that people say is “That’s amazing! I wish I could do that. It’s gonna be incredible. You must be so excited! You’re going to be fine.” And all of that is true. It’s amazing. I am excited. I am going to be fine. But the fact that I am aching from the inside out right now is also real and true. Excitement and deep sadness are not mutually exclusive. In fact I’d argue that they are both the pinch of salt that amplifies the other’s sweetness, any day.

Conversations about Consciousness and Spirituality often hold no space for a love and attachment to material things. “It’s just stuff” and “stuff” is not the nectar of our lives, so they say. It’s not that I disagree, but it is that I am human and I could weep at the recounting of the stories my things could tell you. Stories that span my entire life up until now. If you wanted to know me, my floor and my pillows and my books could tell you EXACTLY who I am. A monk would tell you that my things are not important. But the thing is, I’m not a monk. I’m Stefanie.

Tonight I’ll crawl into bed and lay awake for longer than I’d really like to, hopefully feeling a hot stream of saline tears painting rivers down my face. Apollo will come under the covers with me and fall asleep fast. I will thank Spirit for bringing this home to me. I will pray that it bring me my memories in my dreams.