Argyle Avenue Philosopher

A month removed from the flood. I've been in the new apartment for just about a week, all of the tubs are unpacked, pots and pans washed and rewashed. Miraculously, all of my fish survived, once again in spite of tremendous neglect.

For those who hadn't heard, I qualified for FEMA assistance money, which has largely gone toward replacing home goods so far. It was a healthy sum, and I still have over a grand left.

I'll post new pics of the new place eventually. I like it. The bedrooms are much bigger and the layout is better for two people. I traded "three steps down" for "three flights up", the latter being something I swore I would never do once I got the dog. But we're adjusting. I swear Atlas has pooped out sooner of a night than what he used to (PTL!). And he's totally smitten with the great beast of a Great Dane that lives next door.

The flood business has been great for meeting neighbors, both within the building and on the street. I now have an extra set of keys swapped with my friend Ann Upstairs (literally, that's what I have in my cellphone for her name, even though she now lives downstairs from me) and couple of offers for pet-sitting when the need arises.

I guess I had my first hint that life was getting back to normal on the drive home from work today. Previously in a near-constant state of preoccupation (where will I live? how long until vacation? where can I find a 3'x3' ottoman for under $200?), I was pleasantly surprised on my way home by an "only in Chicago" moment.

The El Blue line runs right down the middle of the highway I take to and from work each day. I was approaching my exit, a train passing me in the opposite direction. In classic Chicago El fashion, the cars were unadorned ribs of steel and plates of glass. Above in the skies, a front had been moving in and dark, wild curls of blue-grey clouds contrasted against a treeline of yellow-red autumn colors. For just a few moments, while the train passed in front of all this, it caught the light from the sun setting on the western horizon and blazed gold.

It was a type of collage unlike any I can remember seeing for some time: huge in its scope, industry and creation rubbing against each other, mundane in one sense, and entirely contemporary in another. It reminded me that this is why I live here now, to see things I can't see anywhere else, become someone only this good hard place can make me. Take a chance, get burned (or soaked, as the case may be) and let the act of putting it all back together, fearfully, prayerfully, teach me where I need to go next.

I've told people that I can't remember feeling so lonely as I did that first night after evacuating the flooded neighborhood, sleepless on a borrowed air matress in a partially rehabbed apartment, unsure of where I was going to living that next day, what of my beloved "things" I had lost, what the next step would or should be. A month later, I've never been so aware of my desire and need for connection, nor of my own ability to buckle down and survive, keep life afloat by alternate measures of sheer self will and total surrender. That may not mean much in the posh bougie life I live most days. But I know it's there.