Last night I had a dream. A dying whale, floating on its back, recounted its tale of swallowing an alligator to a boatload of people. As we watched, the alligator appeared through a bloody slit in the whales stomach.
Reflecting on what home means to us. Stability. Community. A place. A person. Somewhere within ourselves; a feeling. A place to rest, to be safe. A sense of belonging.
A conversation about the fragility and transience of shelter and accommodation. The difficulty of settling, of knowing what to buy for dinner at the local shop, who the neighbours are, of forming close relationships with the people around. Starting to get a feel for it and time’s up, time to move on.
A conversation about the peace and satisfaction of finding a room in a good house with a good landlord, with housemates that feel like family.
A conversation about how great it is to have a house on wheels, a conversation about living on the side of the road, of the looks from the neighbours for taking up another parking space. Paranoia. A friendly family who let you live on their driveway. A conversation about whether this is self-reliance, is self-reliance a goal? Where does community and interdependence meet independence?
Ideas flying about other solutions. Thinking outside the box. Thinking of living in a box. Boxes.
Frustration and resentment about working jobs we don’t, like to spend all the money on rent. No room to grow. Stagnating in our mouldy cages.
Space. Freedom. Dignity. Warmth. Community. Growth. Peace. Getting creative. Working together. Having fun. Experimenting. Resilience. Adaptation.