I have a place where I go to find myself again. It is a quiet space, one that I can call my own. Just enough space to think, journal, cry, smile, and pray. Just enough space to get myself under control so I can go about my day. Just enough space to keep from doing physical harm to someone. Just enough space to keep from saying that one last thing that I can't take back. I do believe that everyone should have a space and some time to call your own. This is especially true when you live in a house with other beings....no matter how big your house might be. My space just happens to be my closet. I'm lucky enough to have a window in my closet (no the space isn't that big and neither is the window) My only wish is that I could open the window! As the years have moved on I have added my cedar chest (more on that later) a couple of pillows to lean on, a small table, a lamp and my net book. The later additions actually came about as the result of really bad day. I was feeling ornery and decided to just go ahead and make my closet into an office to see if anyone noticed or even cared. It didn't have the intended affect, but it really doesn't matter.
During an evening out with my friends, I shared a photo of my closet only to hear, "how sad." I guess I wasn't expecting that reaction. Knowing me, I thought they would think it was a bit humorous. I started to wonder if I was a candidate for what around here is known as the "fifth floor." I started to doubt my motivation for even having that space. A conversation with my psychologist made me realize that I had in fact picked a space that brought me peace because of the memories within, even if I didn't consciously make that choice. There is a book called In My Mother's Closet: An Invitation to Remember by Eugenia Zuckerman. It is a collection of stories from 40 woman about their mother's closets....the sights, the smells, the memories, the discovery of who their mothers really were. Like these women, I loved going into my mother's (and grandmother's) closets to touch those special dresses and imagine what they were thinking as they wore those clothes. After my mother passed away, I remember just standing in her closet, trying to bring her back...the clothes, the craft materials, the smell of her perfume. I know that my daughters have been in my closet as well...as evidenced by the fact that they can be seen wearing a piece of my jewelry or clothes. If they really looked closely they would find lots of memories. Along with the usual contents of normal closets, there is a box of cards and notes that I got when my mom passed away, my "bad day" journal, the dress I wore to my daughter's wedding, the dresses my granddaughter's wore to my sister's wedding, a box of dresses made for me by my mother for various dances and events, my music boxes, a piece of pottery made in college, the purse that my husband made for me, my Bible, as well as a cedar chest filled with bits and pieces of my past. The memories contained in this space are both good and bad, but they surround me with what I need to get past whatever is cluttering my mind. They give me calm, they give me hope and they give me confidence that I can go forward and start fresh.
