I live in an old funeral parlor. How cool is that!?

I have been home for nearly two months, and autumn has fallen hard on Seattle (pun intended). The skies are grey, usually stormy; the air is crisp and cold on my face. My smaller appendages are in a constant circulatory battle to stay warm, and they tend to lose. Cold hands and cold feet will, once again, carry me into the winter months. I have lodged myself comfortably into a routine of making coffee and taking care of small children. I nanny one day a week and am a barista for another four. I live alone in a tiny studio apartment in Wallingmont, a neighborhood that I was unaware even existed on a map until a friend of mine pointed it out shortly after I moved in. My apartment building used to be a Funeral Parlor, and this is one of my favorite things about it. I live in what was once the basement in a well-lit cave that is now all-things-Kendall. I love it. Gazing out windows at peculiar neighbors, and horrendous weather while drinking peppermint tea is becoming a beloved pastime.

Despite my recent love affair with my new home, I still find myself disoriented by the consistency of my routine. Every week has days with repeating hours from the weeks before. Every day has goals. These days have windows of time within which to accomplish said goals. Sometimes I make it. Sometimes I fall short. Time vanishes with a quickness that I have not seen since last winter; it is crushed by the weight of earlier sunsets and frozen sunlight.

I spend a lot of time considering my options. Graduate School? Not yet, but taking the GRE is a good idea. Career? Not yet, can’t stay in one place long enough. Then What? Study for and take the GRE. Find an internship that has something to do with what I love- writing- take it, and go from there. Ok. Rough outline of future materializing. Where would I like to intern? For curiosities’ sake Australia, or New Zealand, and after a bit of research, possibly South Africa.

The romanticized need to be somewhere else is still running through my veins. I am growing up; perhaps I am grown up. Who knows. I want to create a future for myself, but I don’t want to have any idea what it looks like until I get there. Too much thought gets misplaced when I think about what 33 might look like, so I don’t think about it. For now, I want to stare out my window with a hot cup of tea, consider all my options, daydream about other countries, think about the amazing potential of love and let the pieces fall as they may.

This cold season in Seattle, during my 23rd year of life, I can be found doing nothing particular. I will drink peppermint tea while milling around my tiny apartment trying to figure how best to protect my outerwear from the rain. If not that, then maybe I am playing cards with my mom or Collin. If not that, then maybe I am at work. If not that, then maybe I am studying for the GRE, or researching internships. If not that, then…