Sunday Scribblings: Why I Live Where I Live

I saw the topic for today's Scribbling, went a bit wild (in my normal, impulsive way), then realized that I hadn't followed the directions.

Yet again, I have done it wrong.

I don't tell you how I arrived where I did, but I tell you where I'm at, physically and spiritually. For me, the "getting here" is almost too complex to describe--a lot of quick decisions, accerlerating then coasting, spinning, falling, and finally, accepting. In the end, however, I have created a home that is similar to "me," and to discover that, through this writing, was a very satisfying thing.

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This house where I live has dusty baseboards and hardwood floors. In some spots, the floors have worn smooth--easygoing, slippery strips of pine. In other places, the wood is warped--a sharp forest of splinters.

Some of the rooms in my house are nearly empty--a window sill for a cup of coffee, an oversized chair for writing, a patterned rug. Other rooms are cluttered, pretty things like a kaleidoscope of manic thoughts; something to think about everywhere you look--picture frames, Belleek pottery, colorful plastic toys, crumbs, Winter jackets, baskets, puzzle pieces, and books.

There are mirrors in my house, mirrors to look deep and examine the pores and fine lines of my spirit, to see all of my faces, to apply cranberry lip liner, concealer, and black mascara. There are also walls without pictures, uninspired canvases waiting for a handprint or bold, quirky art.

The walls of this house are cracked. I try to cover the plaster canyons with paint, but they contract and expand with the seasons, just as the stretch marks across my waist line do, too.

Sometimes, the shades are down and my house is sealed up--a dollhouse with non-working doors and windows, stale air and stale thoughts trapped inside.

But sometimes, there are daisies on the table, brightening the cheekbones of the house as a new shade of pink blush might complement a pale complexion.

Sometimes, the back porch is like a bar in the Keys, strings of twinkling, Shangri-la lights, a relaxed Jimmy Buffett drawl on the CD player. Sometimes, the bathroom disguises itself as a spa--luxurious towels, a tub filled with water so hot that my thighs bake sun-burn red.

And sometimes, the windows are left open, inviting sunlight, an enthusiastic breeze, mosquitios, and the rumble of the busy street inside.