Up here in my little wooden room I have a view on the "goings on" in my yard. It might not be the hustle and bustle of a New York City street that parades under my window but I'm very much at peace with that.
This was a hard earned view. When we first moved in to our house eight years ago, this room was "my space." I was thrilled to be able to set up a creative haven in the very room I used to sleep in while visiting my grandparents as a young girl. The whole full-circle thing added a cool vibe to the room that was already unique in design. And better yet...it was to be mine...all mine. This lasted until sibling rivalry, cramped quarters, and a son's desires for a space to be "his...all his" moved me to the open landing at the top of the stairs. Beautiful white vases chock full of paint brushes, artist pads, and sharpie markers that once were confined behind a coded lock now beckoned the creativity of all who passed by...probably even the visiting neighborhood kids. It appeared no-one could resist the call. It was only a matter of time until a play room was needed for the kids and I headed for the first floor to share an office space with my husband, which was wonderful in theory not so much in reality. That freshly painted, eclectically decorated space was to exist as an artists den for a nano-second anyway. The son who needed his own space apparently needed more than a hallway to separate him from the clattering of youngsters and headed to the first floor to kick off his teenage independence from early bedtimes, night-time stories, and little kid stuff. So, I was back to the second floor and life in full swing. I don't even think I unpacked fully, just kind of kept dumping more on the surfaces until the coolest thing upstairs was the obstacle course comprised of Mom's junk, bins of Lego's, flowy dress-up costumes, Nerf swords, and boxes of papers that found a home there each time company was coming.
When we decided it was time to actually finish the drywall upstairs I was like a restless nomad, wandering until, against better judgement, I moved my beloved articles to the laundry room in the basement. Yes, these inspirational novels, paints, sketchpads, journals, and pictures which once whispered creative sweet-nothings to me now rebelled in silence covered in one layer of dust, a hint of cobwebs and a fine sheen of dryer lint.
Funny how life brings out a simple truth that less is best. I learned to create at the kitchen table and journal in bed before falling asleep, or scrawl in whichever half-used spiral notebook was closest at hand . My Grandmother, who lived in this very house had a saying that brings it all home, "It is what it is." True that. I learned this truth in time to witness my oldest son grow up and follow his heart to yet another space that would be his...all his; an apartment in a neighboring town. I'm glad we could give him the space he needed while it was needed. My love of stringing words together doesn't need it's own space -- though it's GREATLY appreciated. And truth be told, I can doodle on a t.v. tray if need be.
The night our eldest moved out, his first-floor room was occupied by the second eldest who had been rooming in this wooden space I am writing from. Though I had to kick his roommates out to get this space I am BACK!! I'm now allowing those roomies; two stuffed bears, a glassy eyed buck, a turkey in full flight, a fluffy fox-squirrel, and a beady-eyed black squirrel wander like nomads. And here's some good news- I've only developed a SLIGHT eye twitch since the eldest daughter casually sized up my space and dropped several non-subtle hints about the unfairness in which her brothers had been able to have their own rooms and she was sharing with two sisters.
twitch...twitch...twitch
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