Let me preface this by admitting that I have not yet read this seminal text by Virginia Woolf. I was introduced to the concept 30 years ago through the lyrics of an Indigo Girls song and have held the idea in my heart.
A room of one's own.
Growing up as the only girl in a family with two brothers, I had my own room. But it wasn't a room of my own. It was in my father's house, and there were rules about what could be put on the walls (nothing) what color it could be (white) and what furniture it contained. A quick internet search revealed the exact suite that was deemed appropriate for me.
Needless to say, the charm of this set wore off after age 10. It wasn't really my room. It was the room for the person my father envisioned his daughter to be.
I bought my first house with my fiance when I was 22. It was a 1970's ranch with carpet in shades of green, blue, and red. Formal drapes in the living room. A house clearly left behind by an older person or couple when they moved into assisted living.
To me, it was a blank canvas.
It was my own home to create with my future husband.
So it wasn't truly my own. Compromises had to be made on the bedding we chose for our wedding registry. I had to accept hand-me-down living room furniture from some of his coworkers who had a very different style than my own.
That was the first of five houses we owned together. Each one chosen for the price point and suitability for our family with minor consideration given to location. Style of the house was not important; everything was driven by practicality for a couple with 3 young children living on a single income.
The last house we co-owned was the only one I felt a connection to. I used to think it was because of the quirks and charms of its age and style. Later, I came to realize that it was the closest to being mine of any house I'd ever lived in. My now ex-husband got a job out of state and never moved into it. I lived there alone with my children for 4 months before we moved to join him. I maintained it as a rental property in our absence. I returned to it, without him, to finish the renovations when our tenants moved out. The design choices were almost entirely my own. The blood, sweat, and tears that went into its renovation were mine. He moved back to the house 11 months after I returned, and I made the decision to separate less than a year later.
I started this blog to chronicle the work I did on this house, and record my thoughts along the way. As I read back over it nearly 8 years later, it has been a journal of my own renovation. I have stripped off layers of other peoples' design choices that did not suit me. I found my solid bones and began rebuilding myself.
I am building a room of my own.
