I was home over Thanksgiving, as many people were. Yet, I’m at this unique stage of my life where I still have a room at my parents’ house. I have a room there, but, except a few scattered summers, it hasn’t been my room in seven years.
I love my bedroom, and take great care to make it my own. It’s the one place, no matter what house or apartment I am living in, that is unequivocally mine. I had three rooms in DC. Two I took great care to make my own, and one I did not. My room in Boston is merely a slight variation on the latest in DC, which made moving up here rather painless.
I found that it helps me, in life, to have a place to go back to, that is mine. A space that has grown with me in my adult life, changing a bit each year. I find my room calming and centering. A wonderful place to return to at the end of a day. When I didn’t truly take the time to create that in DC, I felt that I was missing something.
To go back to my parents house and sleep in what was once my room made me reflect on how transitory life is. How rooms are just structures that house belongings and experiences for a short period of time. Yes, that’s existential, but it also made me greatly enjoy the rooms I’ve had and the experiences that have surrounded them. Which seemed to be an appropriate reflection over Thanksgiving weekend.