Homebody

I was in Chicago this weekend, staying at the Chicago Hilton, which is across the street from Grant Park, and a block from Columbia College, where I was teaching at a conference for young people hoping to make a living in the arts. It was a nice conference, and I enjoyed the students and got to meet some interesting artists, but I had a lot of downtime, too much of which was spent in my hotel room.

It wasn’t a great room. It faced an enclosed courtyard, so its two windows looked out on the windows of other hotel rooms, which were close enough to satisfy any voyeuristic impulses I might possess. I preferred to keep my shades drawn. It was strangely laid out. I had a walk-in closet about half the size of the room itself, which felt luxurious when I first opened its door, but soon seemed like a misuse of resources, like a man who lives in a studio apartment but drives a Porsche. It was also hot. I couldn’t get the temperature lower than 75 degrees, even though it was Chicago winter outside.

Still, it was my refuge, and I am at core a homebody. I don’t care about sightseeing or museums or monuments. I love to teach and talk to people about writing fearlessly, but I need time alone. So, I acclimate to my home-away-from-home as quickly as possible. I find the best spot on the bed to watch TV, figure out how to use the coffeemaker and choose where I liked to drink my java in the morning, get the temperature in the shower just right. Each choice soothes me slightly, transforming the room step-by-step from a foreign land to native soil.

Yet just as this acclimation is complete, just as I have put my personal imprint on this space – it’s time to leave. I do this quickly because I know what’s coming. I turn off the TV for the last time, and scuttle about my room like a solider pulling up camp, gathering my things from the closet and dresser and bathroom. I do one more full circuit to make sure I’ve left no sweater or phone charger behind, and I head for the door, coat over my arm, suitcase tilted on its wheels.

There I pause before turning off the light, and that’s when it happens. For one moment, there is a surprising emptiness in me, as if I’m closing the door for the last time on my childhood home. I didn’t love this room and I won’t miss it for a single second, but the emptiness is there just the same. It bothers me that it’s happened again, and I turn off the light and leave. As the door clicks closed behind me, I am temporarily homeless, with a long trip between me and the familiar. I roll my bag down the hall, thinking how I must try to enjoy this coming journey, must make a home of wherever I am between there and my front door.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.

Fearless Writing: How to Create Boldly and Write With Confidence.
You can find William at: williamkenower.com