Without a home!

I am homeless. Again.

Wait a minute, you might say, if you know me. You can’t be homeless. You own two two-flats. You aren’t without a home.

And I would agree with you. I (and the bank) own four apartments. But I am homeless.

I have four apartments. I lived in one, but I rented it out from under myself. I have had to leave seven weeks before another of my apartments was opening up.

So I am homeless. Again.

You see, this is not the first time I have done this.

Ten years ago, I was renovating the apartment I lived in while trying to rent out the apartment above it.

One prospective tenant fell in love with my vision of what my apartment was going to be and wanted that one. I paused for a minute.

“Yes,” I said, and got her signature on the lease. This prompted a flurry of activity. More pressure on the plumber, the electrician. And more of a hunt for a loft that I wanted to buy.

And I found it. My dream loft. Only problem was that it wasn’t zoned correctly. Getting that changed should only take a little.

So I threw myself into the renovation. Doing some of the work myself, and relying on subcontractors for things I couldn’t do myself. 

And things went well, in spite of the slow down after the 11^th of September. (That was 2001.) And the renovation was completed in time for the arrival of my tenants. And I packed up my possessions and . . .

No, I did not move them into the new loft  I had purchased.  I had a deposit on the loft but the zoning issue was not resolved. So I packed up my possessions and stored them (in the basement of that two-flat). And I was homeless.

In 2001, I chose to trek down to Georgia and care for my elderly mother while my sister and brother-in-law motored off for a much needed month-long sojourn.

And then I came back to Chicago. And I was truly homeless. The loft was still not ready. And so my daughter (and her roommate) welcomed me into their apartment, where I camped out until I figured out my living arrangements.

And now ten years later, I find myself ensconced in the extra bedroom of my daughter’s apartment, surrounded by my computer, a few books, and some clothing I brought, while the rest of my possessions are boxed and crammed into either my two-flat basement, or a storage space.

Ten years have past and what have I learned? That it is very hard to live apart from one’s possessions for a period of time. And that I do it, none-the-less, for what seems to be a greater good.

And now, as in 2001, I pause to care about the all too many who are truly homeless. Those perhaps who have lost a home they thought was their dream, and maybe have nowhere to go but to shelters. I pause to feel the pain of those many coming from other lands and cultures who are here crammed in with relatives, but unrooted and uncertain of the future.

I guess my choices have given me an opportunity for empathy.

It is a hard thing to be ripped out of one’s home (or to rip oneself out of one’s home) and not to have a place in which to be comfortably transplanted.

And I have done that. Again.

I am homeless. Again. And I am aching for those who have no choice or control over their homelessness.