trunk dwelling.

I have taken to sitting on top of my car. I go there after I go for a walk, or when I’m talking on the phone, and sometimes just because I want to. I have a patio attached to my apartment, with two chairs, that would work for this purpose. There’s plenty of sittable grass around my building, too. But if the weather is kind, I’ll plop myself on the trunk of my car, just like this. I hop up and lean back at a 45-degree angle and look.

Up, at the trees, the clouds, the sky. I look ahead, and watch cute pups and their owners, or I follow the turkeys who — I swear to God — look at least one way before crossing the street. Or sometimes, I don’t look at all. I close my eyes and listen: to the trees swishing their leaves, or the whoosh of the cars as they drive past, or to the just-as-important but quieter wonderings of my heart. 

And I think. About everything important and nothing important. It’s kind of the opposite of meditating, where you’re supposed to let all thoughts out of your head and only focus on your breath. Instead, I focus on everything except my breath, welcoming every weird question and thought, seeing where it takes me. What kind of job will I have next? I wonder what Glennon Doyle is doing right now? Do I really believe that I can do hard things, like she says we can? Where are these seven police cars driving to so quickly on a Sunday morning? Where do turkeys sleep? How do turkeys sleep?

This new trunk-sitting habit of mine doesn’t make much sense. As previously mentioned, there are plenty of other, more sensible places for me to sit with my thoughts. I know that others think this new habit is weird, too, because sometimes, when my eyes are open, cars slow down and drivers look at me sitting on my trunk. Every once in a while, a pedestrian passes through the parking lot, notices me, and squints at me sitting on my trunk, too. 

But since the world doesn’t make much sense to me these days — both the big things (What did our president just say?, How many humans in the world haven’t had a hug since all this started?, etc.) and the smaller but still-important wonderings of my own life (What will I have for dinner?, What is it I plan to do next with my one wild and precious life?, etc.) — I thought, why does this have to make sense? And what does it even mean for something to make sense anyway? 

Maybe, instead, sitting on my trunk is what makes the most sense. The first time I sat here, I was on the phone. I didn’t want to keep walking, and I didn’t want to go inside yet, and I didn’t want to sit on the ground, so I perched on my car. And when the phone call was over, I just…stayed there. And it felt good, easy, natural. I plopped myself on top of my trunk again a few days later. And then again, and again.

The trunk of my car has become a bit of a buffer; it provides some quiet time before going back into my apartment, where my laundry needs folding or my plants need watering or my resume (which has been a Google Doc tab open for weeks) is taunting me to finally pay attention to it. The trunk of my car is my own scratched-up, metal-island oasis that I can plop myself on, where I can just…be. In times like these, what makes sense is to do what feels good, whenever and wherever we can.

And I’ll keep coming back to it, until my trunk dwelling stops feeling this way.

Maybe your created oasis is not on top of the trunk of your car, but inside a dark closet, or on a blanket thrown on the grass, or both depending on the day. Maybe it’s found on a 5-minute walk around the neighborhood or a 25-minute drive on the highway, where the destination is nowhere except deeper into your own heart/thoughts/life. Maybe it’s all of the above, or somewhere different, either a physical place or a moment — even just one — you can steal for yourself. However you can, I hope you find space to seek out what you need in these times — moments of comfort, rest, joy, relief, hilarity, stillness, clarity — even if they don’t make much sense to others. If it makes sense and feels good for you? Well, then, that’s all the reasoning you need.

And maybe, just maybe, if we stay here long enough, the trunk-sitting and the highway-driving and the closet-dwelling and the slowing down will help the rest of the world make a bit more sense, too.