My Cave

It’s a real mess. An indication of my mind-state, I’m sure. But it’s mine.
It’s an upstairs bedroom I claimed when the kids moved out.
We don’t know what to call it. Craft room—but I don’t do crafts. Sewing room—but I don’t sew much. Work room isn’t much more accurate. My friend calls it my Cave.
I grew up in the middle of a large family, and then I had a large family. Rarely did I have a space to call my own.
One of my very favorite Christmas presents growing up was a desk. I knew it was a refurnished hand-me-down, but that didn’t take away my pure delight at having my own space. I spent hours at it.
I was thrilled when I finally got my own room in the basement, even if it was dark and spider-y. I spent hours and hours there. “Hermit” and “recluse” come to mind.
I never really realized how important it was to me until decades later when I got my Cave. It’s my own space, my own mess, my place to go and do my things. I’m surrounded by my books, files, projects, family history, and sundries.
When too many kids come home for Christmas and I have to pack it up and push things aside to put a blow-up bed in it, it’s okay, but I feel lost, and am really glad when I get it back.
It has become my favorite room in the house, disaster that it is. It’s where I work on talks and lessons, study, pay bills, have my computer. If it doesn’t have to be done in the kitchen or laundry room, I do it in my room. Visitors are allowed, but can’t criticize the mess. It’s mine, mine, mine, and I’m happy there.