Mom didn't live far from her aunt Georgene. When Georgene became ill, Mom helped care for her until the end of her life.
In the end, people don't care much about the things they own.
When Georgene's son was ready to sell the house, since he lived in Kentucky, he asked Mom to help give away his mother's possessions. Mom distributed couches and tables and sent most things to goodwill. But there were a few things that made it to Mom's home.
One night while visiting Mom, she showed me a stack of LP records. Bing Crosby, The Sound of Music, Dianne Carroll--Frank Sinatra. I crooned over the treasure. When no one wanted them, I was thrilled to take them along with a stereo unit that didn't work. My cousin hauled them up in his trailer and I bought him a dinner gift certificate to Ruth Chris' Steakhouse. We both felt lucky.
Mom kept Aunt Georgene's lamp. Each time I walked into her living room, I was drawn to its beauty. It was truly the most gorgeous lamp I'd ever seen.
When Mom recently downsized, she marked the lamp for me.
It took six months to coordinate dates, to drive to Las Vegas, to bring the lamp (among other family heirlooms), home.
I bought bubble wrap from the UPS store and layed the lamp in a box. It made it safely home.
When I first learned the lamp was mine, I started thinking about where I would put it. I noticed the one light in my study was harsh light first thing in the morning. If I awakened before the sun was up, the only alternative was to switch on the bold, three 100 watt bulbs in the overhead fan.
Wouldn't a soft lamp be wonderful.
I set it on on my desk. Then I cleared my often-overcrowded desk to make it a worthy space for something beautiful--something that would elevate the old kitchen counter I'd painted, that was cluttered with a stapler, too many books, notepaper, eyeglasses, and all the wires that come with a laptop and a monitor.
The urge spilled into the closet and the bookcase.
The study was becoming more than a functional space to work.
The study was once Jillian's bedroom. When she grew up and moved out, it didn't immediately dawn on me that the space could be mine. But when it did, I was infused with delightful possibility.
My own Space?
MY OWN SPACE INDEED.
It would become my Virginia Woolf's "A Room of One's Own." It would become my Anne Morrow Lindberg, "A Gift From the Sea." It would become my own sanctuary to read, to write, to create, to squander time secretly.
I covered her wall graffiti with pictures. I bought a pastel rug to cover the nail polish in the carpet. I built a desk from the old kitchen cabinets.
I was creating my own space. I was happy with the make-do, utilitarian, place all my own.
It took time to understand I was worthy of not only a space but a beautiful space.
Over time, I bought a playful storage unit. Over time, I painted the lower walls Youthful Coral. We re-carpeted the upstairs. I brought home from my classroom a painting I fell in love with while in Greece.
And this past weekend, I brought home Aunt Georgene's lamp. I don't know its value, how old it is~~only its beauty.
My room, my space, my sanctuary, grows in value.
There are still a few things that need to be done.
But becoming beautiful is a process.
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