Room for Living

If I had my way, I would probably never leave my house. In school, I decided that Emily Dickinson was my favorite poet. Not because of her beautiful and profound poetry, but because she lived out her life rarely if ever leaving her home. I spent more than a few hours daydreaming about how I could live a similar existence and be remembered not for my strange hermit like behavior but for my timeless insightful writings.  Much to my young heart's dismay, I never really found a way to accomplish this. Perhaps, it was a timing issue. If I had been born into a wealthy family during the 19th century like Emily, Austen, or a Bronte sister, this might have been a realistic life choice. But, alas, I came into being during the mid-1970's to a military family that after decades of hard work managed to claw their way into the middle class. My high school guidance counselor did lay out a few options for my future, but sadly literary recluse did not make the list.

I made my way into the world and did my best to convince it that I belonged. But, I don't think either of us has ever really been fooled. I played nicely enough that I managed to get a degree, a few jobs and, one particularly successful year, a husband. Eventually, a friend or two followed. It was all quite exhausting really. Then, I had the stroke of luck to become pregnant with my first child. I now had the perfect excuse to stay home and take care of important house and child things. This worked for a while until I realized that children needed friends, so I once again had to venture out into the world to see if someone would take us on. I wasn't really all that successful despite some halfhearted attempts at a local park. My husband took it upon himself to go for a walk one evening in order to find me and my young son a friend. He had not been gone for more than 30 minutes when he returned with the news that he had met a mother of similar age and background to myself that just happened to have a son that just happened to have been born the day after mine. He said she would be by the next day to introduce herself. And, so began a semi-wonderful friendship.

I could continue on with the story, but I think I've made my point. I am at my most content in my own home. Despite years of trying to play by the rules of socialization, I have always known this. My love of decorating grew not from an artistic mind, but a desire to create a space that I would always prefer to be in no matter where else life deemed I needed to be. I leave my house quite often these days where I mix with other humans for both work and pleasure. But, each morning I sit in my favorite room in my favorite chair sipping my coffee dreaming of a life that could be lived right from this spot. And, each afternoon I return to this same space thankful that it is here to welcome me back. It never judges or asks what I can do for it. It simply provides comfort and solitude. It's the one place that I never have to perform. Here is where, with the stroke of a pen in my latest journal, I can finally be Emily Dickinson.