Sometimes, things work out perfectly

I've had my hands poised over the keyboard for five minutes, not knowing what to write. The title says it all. Yes, sometimes things work out perfectly.

I found an apartment with ease in a beautiful section of Brooklyn. I expected to find one after weeks of grueling legwork and heaps of humiliation. What kind of person even expects to find an apartment in this supposed beast of a city, when that person has no job and a less than perfect credit rating? "They" say it's impossible!

I did have a broker show me a place that was a little bigger than a cell block, claiming it was indeed 400 square feet, while we stood in a room that was 7 foot square. I pointed out that 7 by 7 doesn't add up to 400 square feet as he shifted impatiently in his Armani suit. He said, "This is the size of a studio on the Upper East Side." He handed me his card, opened the door, practically slamming it in my face as he ever so briskly walked out. I ripped it in half. Part of me believed him and another part of me thought some things I wouldn't write here.

Another broker stood me up and didn't return my calls after I called her from the street. A third told me no one would rent to me, period. A friend of friend, who was quite trusting, gave me the keys to an apartment he owned in a "very good neighborhood. One bedroom, too!" I walked through the projects, got a bit lost, and finally found the place, a half a block from the Brooklyn Queens Expressway. The apartment was so close that it shook. The "bedroom" was two feet wide. Great for books!

I sat down and pondered about how much meditating I'd have to do in order to live there in peace.

So, today, as I walked towards the studio that finally someone told me was "small", I expected nothing (well, I did have hopes, but I kept talking myself out of them). It was too inexpensive for this neighborhood, for one thing. Too good to be true.

Yet, something felt right about it from the start.

I knew the address. I had lived not even one block away when I was 26 years old. That was the apartment I lived in when my mother died. I loved it, and I was at the start of my career as a commercial illustrator. I worked hard, enjoyed the neighborhood, especially the amazing Brooklyn Botanical Gardens, and liked living near each to the City to go there, but far enough away to hear birds singing on a spring morning. Then, when my mother died suddenly, I had to move for reasons that are too complex to explain.

For years I had dreams that I still lived there and had forgotten, was late on the rent, or was happy to be back, or something. My life had been ripped in two at that time. It was "before my mother died" and "after my mother died."

So, when I heard this apartment was so nearby, it felt important. It felt like an opportunity to come full circle. To end the dreams and to begin new ones.

Today, I walked past my old apartment and started to feel shaky. I met my new "landlord" and she was as lovely a person as one can meet. The apartment? Not too small, absolutely charming, full of character, and (pretty much) affordable. We chatted for two hours and I handed her a check for the first and last month's rent.

I can't believe it's done. I can't believe any of this.

I will believe it when I'm sitting in the apartment surrounded by boxes. And when they are unpacked, I think I'll go see the cherry blossoms at the park. After that, I might start really shaking.

I am walking into a totally new life, and I'm not doing it from a 7 by 7 foot cell.

Wow.

Photo note: A bit of the Brooklyn Botanical Garden.