Virginia Wolfe wrote "A Room of One's Own" as a literal and figurative essay about a woman's need for mental and physical space to write fiction. I read the book many moons ago when in my early twenties. While much of the essay may escape my memory, the very idea of having a space to call my own has long been in a little room of its own, just on the edge of consciousness. I always knew my time would come, I just needed to bide my time.
Who knew? Who knew I would have to imagine it?
Soon enough, both children were well on their way to forging their own trails. Finally, it was safe to convert my daughter's bedroom into a room of my own. I started with a blank slate---white walls, white trim, just waiting for the painted furniture, my vision board, and the splashes of color provided by all the bargain bits & pieces I would scavenge.
Not so fast, Jan. Grown children sometimes return to the nest, sometimes to lick wounds, sometimes to get on their feet. Sometimes, being a better mom means postponing once again, without hesitation.
Nope, this is not my desk. This is where my desk would be. Instead, this is where my girl gets pretty.
This is not where my pretty curtains hang.
My pretty girl hopes to be a pretty bride.
Nope. This is not where I sleep. What can I say? Pretty girl was not gifted with the "clutter-free" gene.
My time will come. I'll bide my time once more. And, I will delight in it.
Once upon a time, I imagined a room of my own...
