The Husband (under the direction of his dad) gave me a fabulous Christmas gift this year: a walk-in closet.  For my past five years of New York living, my closet has been the only thing in my life smaller than my apartment, a corner in a shoebox stuffed to the gills with stuff.  The Container Store became my best friend during those years as I shoved cotton, silk, and wool into canvas hanging shelves and stored coats under my bed.  Now, room to breathe…and organize.  Two of my favorite activities.

The benefit of my New York closet system was that it left no room for the unnecessary.  Changing my wardrobe over from winter to summer and back again invariably led to garbage bags filled with discarded outfits and a subsequent trip to Goodwill.  Shopping trips carried a downside not only because they required money I didn’t have, but because one item in the closet meant another item had to go to make room for it.  More trouble than it was worth.  And still, my closet doors didn’t fully shut until the day I emptied their insides and moved out.

Such is the ordeal of those who are blessed to the point of abundance.

And now, with my beautiful white shelving units and drawer systems and double racks, I just stand and twirl around, as a recovering New Yorker is apt to do in areas of arm-spreading space, and marvel at the gifts I’ve been given.  While, at the same time, I resist the opportunity to hoard them that this new closet provides.

So much life can happen in a day.  But I’m usually so buried in my closet or my planner, storing up clothes and plans for next year’s winter, that I allow it to pass me by.

Yesterday I took the time to slow down.  Since singleness, while I was living in it, was the scourge of my existence, I failed to notice the parts of it that I enjoyed in all my introverted weirdness.  Like seeing movies alone.  Such an activity may seem relegated to the arena of serial killers for those who don’t appreciate it themselves, but there’s something about two hours of not talking or sharing popcorn that leaves me giddy.  So yesterday, when I called TH and let him know that I was going to see The King’s Speech solo, his initial alarm (“By yourself? Are you sad?  Is something wrong?”) gave way to a repeat of his Christmas gift of space to me, and I headed into the theater, small popcorn and Mr. Pibb in hand.

Talk about being reminded of the fleeting nature of life.  Within minutes, I was surrounded on all sides by a seeming brigade of senior citizens.  The woman two rows behind me accidentally hit the woman one row behind me with her steel walker.  The man in front of me sported noggin-encompassing, hearing-enhancing headphones.  A lady to my right kept voicing her displeasure at the seating arrangements (“I can’t see! But I can’t see anything!  No, it’s not going to get any better!”) until a kindly usher with a flashlight led her to a new perch.  And throughout the previews and exquisite movie, comments peppered like dropping bombs throughout the audience: “Well I won’t miss seeing that one!”  “What did he just say?  What?  Oh, that’s funny.”  “That character is just a jackass.”

Then the movie ended and the benefit of being the youngest audience member revealed itself: getting into and out of the bathroom before everyone else.  I walked out of the exit and into the sunlight just in time to see a van pull up with the name of an assisted-living facility emblazoned on its side.  I realized that the past two hours, which were a brief diversion for me, constituted A Big Event for the rest of the audience.  And immediately, all I wanted to do was get home to TH and enjoy the rest of our day together.

Sometimes space is just what I need.  Other times, it can put too much distance between me and what matters most.  I’m beginning to see the challenge I face in living in whatever space is mine and just being there, soaking it in and staying still long enough to appreciate what Now brings without jumping ahead to the next moment or the one after that.  Reflected in the countertops that sparkle for seconds after I clean them then so quickly become dirty again, time flies.  But somehow I seem to be consistently–faithfully–given exactly what I need for the flight.