A Room of My Own

“Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing,

of just going along,

listening to all the things you can’t hear,

and not bothering.”


journal entry:

That is how I feel about my special room.  It isn’t big but it isn’t small.  It is full of color, texture, fabric, paper, glue, scissors, punches, buttons, pins, books, patterns, yarn, keepsakes, things in files, things on the desk, things on the walls, things in bins, things poking out of other things, little machines which cut paper and punch holes, and other unnecessary but desirable objects of my affection.  Sometimes I just sit there and do nothing at all . . . but usually my mind is looking around on the inside and the outside.  I can walk out of a door and into the yard.  I can see flowers against the window. I love things that organize . . . like jars and drawers, bins and baskets, hooks and books. I love things that cut, punch, measure.  I love to label things in easy-to-read ways.  I love handmade tabs and dividers.  I love magnet boards, and chalk boards and white boards.  I love making something out of something else . . . in my special room. I love to shift things from drawer to drawer.  Sometimes, like Winnie-the-Pooh, I just sit and listen to nothing and wonder what will happen next.
Everyone loves to have their own space, no matter what it is used for or how large or small it is.   There’s something about putting things away . . . and finding them in the same place when you are ready for them. Amazing. Grandpa’s have workbenches and garages . . . Grandma’s have special rooms. Grandchildren like to snoop around in both places.

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