Quietly Lonely in Rainy Suburbia

How to illustrate this moment...

I shut my bedroom door so that the silent house wouldn't feel so cavernous. I made tea to warm my cheeks and hands. I'm reading Peter Barry, Shaun Tan, and Orhan Pamuk for company. I put on a sweater to substitute for a hug. Outside the world is wet and grey. Inside the lamp light presses on my eyes. Mumbling, stumbling, tripping and fumbling. I want to paint something, dye something, clean something, read something... but I have no wood, cloth, mess or...well, I have books, but I'm feeling much more driven to actively create something at the moment. And so here I am writing even as I cringe thinking about how ridiculous blogging really is sometimes. Regardless...

Once upon a time I had a conversation with a teacher about having a need for a sanctuary. I'm one of those people who just needs a space. It doesn't have to be a solitary one, but it needs to be one I can decompress in. As I was exploring winding wooded paths yesterday, this conversation came back to me and I wondered about this concept. The conversation took place back in high school. I'd been really disturbed by something I heard during the day and I luckily had a free period at that point so I set off for the Latin room. While there I perched on a desk and attempted to straighten out my head. A teacher came in and sat with me; we discussed how that particular classroom was situated almost like a tree-house or a fort and how good it is to have a sanctuary. Thinking of a sanctuary as a physical space, the places I tend toward make no sense. They really have nothing in common: the Villa Latin room, an old paintball fort, the kitchen in the basement of the dorm at Millersville, the cornfield at Mary's barn, the entirety of New York city (because, as Fitzgerald says in "Great Gatsby," the places with the most people can provide the most anonymity), Stuyvesant park, the 8th floor of Kimmel, the 7th floor at Bobst, my bedroom at home. A friend once started talking about collecting items for his sanctuary in his home. He had a space with a meditation alter and candles and chimes... It all sounded fine and dandy of course. My bedroom would have to be the most consciously constructed of all my various spaces, but it really hasn't been thoughtfully constructed. It's purple with a few plants, some candles, art supplies, stacks of books, and pillows on the floor in the corner where I like to sit. It's a place where I can bring friends and have tea or space out on my own....but when all is said and done it is a very haphazard space. I found myself feeling a tad bit sorry for my friend. The reason for this, I think, is because the goal of self-reflection and personal maturation is to convert one's sanctuary from a physical place into a state of being. Things don't make a sanctuary. Peace of mind and heart does. Sometimes other people fit into the equation or books fit or colors fit. Other times, all that is necessary is the rhythmic pounding of footsteps along a path in the forest floor and an awareness of each precious breath of light.

Now that you think I'm crazy, I'll get off my soapbox for a bit.

In other news, I'm grateful to the Tavani family for yet another lovely pasta night, wishing Cass all the best on his trip, waiting for Emily (S.R., not my sister Emi) to publish her findings on the neurology of third language acquisition, and debating spending last week's earnings buying every Shaun Tan book available as of right now.

More tea is in order. TTFN. Ta ta for now!