Making a Place

Especially when we first moved in, it was hard to think of this house as ours. I kept thinking about the person who used to live here, what he used each room for, how he lived, what he thought about as he looked at and touched and used the same things that we do now. People, or maybe me in particular, spend so much energy keeping other people at a distance. We put such a premium on privacy, on personal space. It's strange to think that no matter what you do, though, your life will be touched by someone else's, sometimes a stranger's, in fundamentally intimate ways. The house or apartment where someone lived the dramas of his life, where someone breathed his last breath, is the house or apartment you inhabit and fill with the flotsam and jetsam of your own life. It seems strange to have what feels like a strong bond with someone you will probably never know.

When I think about this, I think that maybe I should be more open to meeting strangers. Who knows what kinds of bonds we might share? I've always been the kind of person who does what I call "circling the wagons": only certain people, my family and close friends, are in the circle, and everyone else is on the outside, being guarded against. I am cynical and suspicious of people unknown to me. I do not easily let people in. It's self-protection, but how effective is it really? There will always be people whose lives will touch mine in ways that I cannot guard against.