LIVING IN A SMALL SPACE Reflections on Control

Moving from a one hundred square metre space to one of forty square metre is exciting. It’s a pretty, cheerful studio with everything one needs. A TV infront of the bed, washing machine next to the sink and a neat mini oven and hob tucked in behind the bathroom door. It’s like being away for the weekend.

Meanwhile the renovation of the one hundred square metre space is ongoing. Walls are pulled down and the bathroom is deconstructed. Bits lie all over the garden like shrapnel from a bombing. Rubble lies on the floor and the workers take off for the weekend.

My heart is still in that place and the rubble is lying on my atria, my ventricle is covered in dust. My grazed persona calls the men to please clean up. They do, sweeping through the place with the force of a small army.

Why is this so stressful? Not living there at present should give me distance and the ability to wait. But I dwell in the present. I don’t have the ability to see or to trust that this place will be cleaned. It will be built back up again, it will be renovated. But for now, it’s a grey dusty place that my personality won’t allow me to see as temporary.

I look at kitchen plans through dull eyes with a distressed spirit. Yes’ that’s fine, that will do’ is my default. My friends pings me with another Pinterest idea. She’s American and passionate about ‘makeovers’. She jolts me into action with the effectiveness of an electric shock. Her vision is contagious. we see sunken 1960s kitchens, luxurious wooden floors and underfloor heating. My workers see laminate and heaters on the walls.

Then I miss sitting out, watching the sun rise in the mornings. My studio begins to feel like a prison. I wake up with an urge to get out every day and gallivant in cafes. but even this wish is thwarted because I have to tour the plumbers shops, wander the electrical cooperative and order skips. Then they arrive in the evening, just when I’m breathing out and swtiching on a film. ‘Ela Katerina’, I hear from downstairs, or a knock on the door reminds me the work is only starting.

All elements of control of my life have vanished down the bathroom sink that now lies in a landfill. There are bright moments, when the guy in the plumbing coop spends two hours patiently going through the steps to creating a bathroom. He gently corrects me if I say somenthing about the sink style – that’s the next step- Oh, I say, of course – that’s the next step. He shows me the glossly tiles, assures me they will be safe and listens with a poker face when I say I want the taps in the middle of the bath in case – you know- noone likes the tap end.

I reflect on how nice it is to have all this attention paid to my needs and taste. I still can’t see it, though. It’s like homesickness – you think the distressed stage will never end. Is it an inability to see a future? It’s like having your senses cut off so you’re disconnected from the earth and the seasons.

Renovations here in Greece move with the seasons. As the weather improves, as Easter approaches, magic happens. No wonder the Sun God was worshipped. Stuff happens when he shines and casts his blessing. Meanwhile, we go on thinking we’re in control.