I've now moved into my parents' former home. It's a bit chaotic of course: I need more bookcases! And my own bed too. But it's otherwise very comfortable and well-equipped, and as a viable living capsule it could hardly be bettered. I have slept and cooked and eaten and showered and washed clothes in it, and it's beginning to feel like a proper home.
Funny, before I moved in, I was eager to make plans for a radical redecor and other changes as soon as may be - not straight away, out of respect for the place, but certainly by September. I'm no longer in such a hurry. I will still do it, but for now the appearance of the house is having a calming effect. I feel safe and very grateful for having this place as my own. It's not to be messed up, or badly used, but cherished as a prize. I feel that the house is looking after me, as if left final instructions by Dad, instructions that it will faithfully carry out until I have found my feet. I am an orphaned child that has to grow up, and my parents have fashioned this Ark for me to live in while I do that. They foresaw. I am reminded of the 1972 film 'Silent Running', the one in which Bruce Dern, alone on a spaceship with a couple of little robots, lives for the remnants of Earth's forests, preserved in domes attached to the ship. Except that I am not looking for the same ending. The house is now my home, my base, my safe haven, my exclusive retreat, my private fortress, my hurricane eye, my mother's womb. I need to reposition, regroup. It doesn't matter if I drift through the universe, I can get back as soon as I have mastered the controls. I suspect that one day I will settle into the chair on the bridge, set a course, and confidently go where I never dared to go before.