Another day that is such a deep gray that it seems we’re stuck in perpetual twilight. The wind has been howling incessantly since the middle of the week, and it fills me with a sense of unease.

The house we’ve rented here in Belgium is bigger than any house I lived in in America; it has three floors, five bedrooms, plus a full basement. Now it holds memories of our three years here and not much else.

It’s currently furnished with three beds, three dressers that look like filing cabinets, two ugly upholstered chairs, one ugly sofa, three end tables, three lamps, a kitchen table and chairs. Every cushioned surface, from the living room furniture to our mattresses, is sealed in some sort of plastic beneath the covering. When you sink into the sofa or chair or rollover in bed at night, there’s loud crinkling. It’s a bit like living in a doctor’s waiting room.

The kitchen is stocked with one plate, fork, spoon, and knife for each of us, about six cups, plastic tumblers, four sharp knives, a colander, and a basic set of cooking pans. The round table next to the window and our familiar dishes make this the part of the house that still feels like home.

The bathrooms hold one towel for each of us and our toiletries are scattered on the floor because they took all our shelves and the house has no built in cabinets or vanities.

My laptop is perched on a pile of empty cardboard boxes—my new desk courtesy of the movers. Two small laundry baskets hold a jumble of office supplies and papers and files on the floor.

My wardrobe consists of three pairs of pants, three pairs of shoes, four turtlenecks, five t-shirts, five sweaters, one vest, one sweatshirt, one set of pajama pants, a jacket and a raincoat. That will hold me until mid-March.

I miss my hot pink down vest, an item I didn’t keep with me because it’s not the most versatile color. It is, however, just the color you need to punctuate the mid-winter gloom and claim some cheer. Still, I’m glad for my heather gray wool cardigan. It’s trying to conjure a bit of levity with its pink striped sleeves.

This is the ultimate in downsizing. This is the simple life for a spoiled American grrrl.

Some how, despite all the planning, things got a bit scrambled during the packing.

I remembered to set aside my watercolors, but not my brushes or watercolor paper. I have my colored pencils, not my sketchbook.

My art journal got packed up, and I’d wanted to keep it with me. I’d planned to mail my photo negatives back to the U.S. in a tracked package but I just lost my will at the end. I did grab photo CDs and professional prints.

I only set aside three books because I don’t normally read a lot of books. Now I long for the distraction of a good story and the floor to ceiling bookcases that teemed with them. I need to get to the library, but I no longer have a car, so I have to pick a day when the wind and rain won’t punish me while I’m walking and waiting for the bus.

I picked up four magazines yesterday so I’d have something to flip through when I’m drinking tea at the kitchen table, a favorite escape now that the cleaning is done.

I have to admit, our Spartan bedroom has its own serenity, almost like a yoga studio. Bare wood floors, white walls, and a double bed with a single blanket on it. A lot of empty, yet a lot of comfort. When the lights go out, we lie on the narrow mattress, our backs touching, and we stare silently into the darkness, waiting for our dreams to roll in.

January 20, 2007