June 2010

The Computer, the Witch and the Closet

/ wvfurandroot / 7 Comments

Oh to have a closet so grand.

When I was young I used to sit in closets.

My parents only noticed that I did so when angry or upset, but in truth I did it often. They only checked on me when I was angry or upset.

The first-time I can remember, I was about 8. The memory seems a foreshadowing of now. I was home from school with a cold, but was feeling better. Though still sick, I was restless and at loose ends. I had read all the books I had to read. I discovered that daytime television was inane. I was feeling creative.

My brother and I had a child-sized table and chair set that was beginning to be too small for us. I remember pushing aide my clothes and dragging that table into the closet. I turned on the closet light, stepped in and closed the sliding doors. I wrote my own book sitting on the floor in front of that small table. If memory serves, it was about the wonders of newborn spring animals.

The closeness of the closet was not oppressive, but comforting – a womb of sorts.

Later in junior high, when I was always upset and seldom creative, I would sit in my closet and brood. A closed bedroom door provoked too much attention, but slipping into the closet and closing the door brought me the alone time I needed. The time to think through my brooding.

My parents didn’t discover my closet hide-out until I couldn’t be found for dinner one night. I remember being very angry about something; and I remember exploding when they teased me about “hiding in the closet.” I couldn’t make them understand – indeed, I probably didn’t even try. I remember childhood as being a time when I didn’t yet have the right words to explain my thoughts and actions. Even now, anger renders me inarticulate.

I puzzled out life in my closet hideout, sitting on the shag carpeting sometimes in the dark and sometimes with a flashlight.

Some time between 8 and teenager, I read C.S. Lewis’s The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe — a story about a large wardrobe closet that is the entryway to a magical land where good struggles against evil. I loved the book and I loved the author’s description of hiding in the closet and the surprise of finding it went on and on into a forest.

It didn’t occur to me until just a few moments ago, that at the ripe-old age of 50, I’ve built a closet hideout. Without any guile, I told myself the closet office was to house the computer equipment I couldn’t bear to see sitting on my old oak library table.

Just now I finished writing a thousand words or so on that computer in that closet. As I puzzled out the right words, I would stop and admire the atmosphere of the closet – cozy and hidden. A secret place -even with the door taken off and thus open to the sounds of the forest behind me.

I have this house to myself and I don’t need to hide in a closet to be alone with my thoughts, so I’m surprised the closet office resurrected secret thoughts and feelings- the ones I wouldn’t put words to. What I intended to write is not what I wrote. The piece is raw, but honest, contemplative and strong. It is the stuff I’ve never given myself permission to set out in words; stuff I can only bear to look at if glimpsed through the safety of hands held loosely over my eyes. Tonight there was no frightened peering through fingers.

I’ve surprised myself. I’m anxious and a bit scared of what I might write in that closet. Good battling evil is far too strong a metaphor, but it will have to do for now. 

I’m puzzled that in all the weeks of painting the closet, building shelves, sorting through stuff to effect the closet, the memory of my childhood need for a closet sanctuary never burbled to the surface.

Virginia Woolf wrote of needing a room of her own.  It seems I need a closet.

Sunday, just before midnight

/ wvfurandroot / 4 Comments

Midnight is close.  I should be in bed.

My life is full of shoulds and a great deal of can’ts.

I will be tired in the morning if I don’t go to bed soon.

Indeed, I’m tired now.

I’m tired now and the glass of cabernet keeps me occupied here. That and the wet nail polish on my toes. And the gentle peace of this room.

It has been a full and productive weekend. I am pleased with myself.

Earlier today, I purchased chrysanthemums and carnations, both white. The scent of the flowers, the hum of the fan, and the lamplight falling across the floor are singing a siren’s song. I have become one with this chair. In truth, I might not be able to move from this spot. It’s a definite truth that I don’t want to.

The night is cool – a blessed relief from the heat and humidity of the past few days. The cat wanders in and out; and there is a moth flitting around. The shamrocks have folded their leaves and are nodding as if asleep.

I should match their repose.

The house has been straightened, the laundry put away, provisions procured.

I have always been fond of Sundays. There was a time when Sundays were lazy, uneventful days – a day of cooking, napping, reading, watching old movies. My weeks are so busy that it is now Saturday that I wallow in, but I do so amidst the chaos resultant from a busy work week. Sundays, I deal with the chaos.

This weekend, I  was a whirlwind – both days.  This time now is my downtime. 

It is nice to wallow.

But it’s so late.

The wine is in a graceful, hand-painted balloon goblet, condensation sliding down the stem to puddle on the end table next to the treasure chest that was my son’s heart’s desire when he was young.

Would that my heart’s desire could be purchased at a discount store for a few dollars. Indeed, I would be pleased to discern my heart’s desire. Dissatisfaction has been a close companion these past few months which may explain why I’m sitting here. My sense of contentment is almost palpable and I don’t want to disturb it.

I have a strong need to luxuriate in this sense of well-being.  This feeling that all is right in the world, but if it’s not, it soon will be.

For this moment, it is my heart’s desire to luxuriate in this contentment. The shoulds will still be there tomorrow and, perhaps, this time of contented thought will transform the cants.