Sleeping in a Loft

Is nothing new for me. I slept in a loft in Chicago for over 34 years. I love that cozy coffin feel of slipping in and scrunching up. Granted I’m only 5’2”, and light on the ladder.

The first night in the Tiny House I decided to sleep on the floor as my ladder was in transit. It was a long fitful uncomfortable night. The floor is ceramic tile and cold. In addition, I never sleep well the first night in a new situation. I blew up a camp mat, nevertheless, my back was stiff and sore in the morning. I was determined to spend the next few nights up in the loft, despite the rickety cast-off ladder pulled from a neighbor’s trash I’d use to get up there. It is an exercise in faith and folly as I wobble up, the whole thing swaying as I climb. Coming down, the same.

Last night as I tucked in I thought: I feel safe. Complete. Content.

The reality of boxes, my stuff strewn about, the puzzle pieces of my life seeking context are for a moment suspended as I turn on my light, pull up the covers, and read a few pages from a book or watch YouTube in bed. A certain sense of well-being, that all is well 

            or at least okay for now.