No, I don’t mean MySpace. I don’t go near that place. It is bad enough that I hang around here more often than I should. And then there is Facebook and Twitter. No wonder I don’t get things done as fast as I should.
No, what I am think about is “my space”, my personal space, the space that makes me happy. I don’t live in that space anymore. Not that I am complaining….much. If it gets the house sold then I am for it.
But I think we all long for our own “space”. A place that we feel comfortable in. A place that isn’t violated by other people. Don’t we?
OK, well I do at least. And I always have.
When I was little I loved small spaces where I could curl up and read. I remember making reading “tents” in the corner of my room. I had pillows and books and I was happy as a clam in a sandbar. I could stay in there all the live long day and read.
That may have been the reason why Pilot Man and I fought over who got to sleep on the bottom bunk at The Cottage. It was all nice and cozy…..oh and the person on the bottom bunk could put their feet on the bottom of the top bunk mattress and push up, thereby disturbing said top bunk person and making them really mad…..
Not that we did that or anything.
I have always wanted a bed like this…
Or something similar to it only with a window and curtains that I could pull closed and shut out the world. I would crawl in and just stay with my books forever. Cozy.
I am unsettled by the fact that I have had to “disassemble” my cozy place. I don’t really have my space to curl up in and read or knit. I don’t have my books, craft supplies, knitting piles and sewing stuff around me. They are, for the most part, in boxes in the basement where they will stay for the duration. I can’t tell you how many times in the last few weeks I have gone to look up a favorite passage in a book only to remember that the book isn’t accessible to me. Or think to try a particular craft idea out only to remember that I can’t do that at the moment.
Remember this piece of furniture? I know I have written about it but I can’t locate that particular post.
This is my red chair. The first picture is in it’s infancy, all nice and shiny and new. That is my dad sitting in it. The lower picture is as it is now, beat up and splitting at the seams. But it is my chair, inherited from my grandparents. It smells the same as the first time that I sat in it. It creaks just the same as when I would sit in it at my grandparents house. It is my reading and knitting spot. It sits…or sat in my office and gave me joy every day.
It is now residing in the garage and I can’t tell you how many times a day I think to sit in it and then remember that it isn’t available to me.
I think that we long for places that are our own. Places that we craft just for ourselves. Places where we surround ourselves with what we most love, what sooths us and brings down the stress of the day. And when those places are dismantled, for whatever reason, we are out of sorts.
At least I am.