As I reflect upon my childhood growing up in a house that was built in 1926, which had a basement, an attic and contained many rooms within it, I am still able to conjure visceral memories that are forever a part of me. I was completely an outside child, nature housed me and she was carried in my pocket always. However, when the call was to be inside, depending upon what my spirit needed, I instinctively knew which room beckoned me to her door.
The walls of the basement and attic spoke a different language than the other rooms. In the attic, there was a tiny closet that was wall papered and plumbing where a toilet had been. It was so steaming hot up there, just a huge attic fan and my mind wondered who could have ever survived both the frigid winters and the searing heat of the summer? Who was offered only this space which did not feel inhabitable to my young self. This where my huge box of dress up clothes were and also a rack of clothes which my older sister had outgrown that I would one day grow into. Someone once asked me as a child, “Where do you get your pretty clothes?” I replied, “I just go up into the attic and there they are.” Always my dear mom in the background decoding my banter which produced laughter often.
The basement was where my first tricycle arrived in February for my birthday that was white and black with a bell and white tassels attached to the handle bars. I rode it all around in the basement as ice and snow were not inviting outside for this new skill I was developing. In the basement was where I could get my wiggles out on inside days with a ping pong table, a dart board and poles that we hung onto and danced around. Mind you, not the image one might have these days of pole dancing. Just a bunch of spirited girls spinning around, laughing and seeing who could hold on the longest.
My bedroom was my sanctuary and often everyone would wonder where I had gone and that’s where I was. My parents encouraged my two siblings and me to learn how to savor alone time and I was a quick study. I am able to drop into my little blue chair that housed my delight and contained my tears. I had three large windows in my room and depending upon where I gazed from, the images changed and brought in various perspectives. A neighbor, named Danielle, moved in across the street and I could see her bedroom window from mine. We would raise our shades and flash our flashlights with a secret code among friends that was our coded language. I had twin beds in my bedroom with those knobby white bedspreads that if I fell asleep on them I’d awaken with indentions all over my face. Oh, my brother and sister had a hay day with that. Mom would sleep in my other twin bed when I was really sick so that she would be close at hand to shepherd me to the bathroom, give me sponge baths and seeing her within an arm’s length was my safety net.
Discovering the expressive language of rooms as a wee one and delighting in how each held me in ways that perhaps language could not even find form for. My senses and body continue to inform and guide me. Often by simply walking into a different spaces it can shift my mood.
May we each be reminded of the various rooms that have held us. Perhaps those too who became uncomfortable, tight and even itchy. Like an old skin whispering quietly into our ear that it’s time to move on now as something new awaits and is inviting our presence and imagination.
Rooms do this to and for me. Closing my eyes and bowing to these sacred spaces who have tenderly held me and continue to do so. Holding me within their walls like the arms of a loving being who is delighted.
(I was inspired to write this piece as I listened to Rooms, Insight Timer Piano Meditation, by Franco Bochicchio.)
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