THIS is the Tower of Terror. It's a pile of vintage fabric and clothes that I've inherited and collected over the past 15 years. What do I do with it, you ask? Why, I tell myself I'm going to USE it one day, going to turn it into something AMAZING!
I've been telling myself that for 15 years.
THIS is my work/art shelf. It's stuffed with magazines and drawings and books. I can hardly get to it for the large containers that sit in front of it and the suitcase full of craft supplies. Again, been hanging on to these things for at least 15 years...some possibly longer.
Lately I've felt claustrophobic creatively. I can't stretch out my elbows and there's no room to type or sew or cut paper. There's no room to invite others over to dive into the piles and stacks. There's no space mentally for me to create.
Let's move! I cry. PLEASE! Some place larger...someplace our own.
I dream of - long for - a place of my own.
A place where I can paint the walls, change out the door knobs, rip up flooring, gut bathrooms.
A place where the yard is big enough to breathe in, doesn't over look everyone's back yard and has a 9 foot privacy fence all the way around it.
A place where I don't have to be “on” all the time, where if I walk out on my carport the weird neighbor next door isn't looking through his fence at me,.
I've never owned a home of my own.
I'll be 41 this year.
Space is sacred where we are. The living room tends to stay tidy; it's the main space. We sit here, eat here, watch TV here, read here, listen to records here, play with the cats here, entertain friends on the coffee table here.
The rest of the house?
Remember the “Tower of Terror”?
Two weeks ago I started digging through my books. I need SPACE I cried and pulled from the stacks books I'd never read, books I'd never read, books that I read but won't read again. It felt good. I did it to another book shelf, the one that sits in the small square we call The Hall. I got stacks of books off the floor. They're not waiting to be transported to a Little Free Library or to become part of another project.
The space created is nothing I can use but it's everything. It made me see progress and hope. It made me realize that perhaps my clinging to things has caused the stagnation in my creativity.
Right now, my back is to the work space area, where the Tower of Terror resides. I know what I have to do I'm just, as Frodo said, afraid to do it.
Why? It would free up space. It would allow me to start something I've long wanted to do but haven't had the out-going guts to do it. It would give me breathing room for projects to be born rather than the mire that refuses to let go of any supply much less allow something to breathe a breath of life.
Do you cling to things? Ideas, stories, craft supplies? There are things I'll never get rid of: stuffed animals from my past, some of my grandmother's clothes, a small set of oil paints my Mom used to paint with in our living room when I was a really little girl. But the Tower of Terror? It's got to go, got to be cut down to size and turned into a long held idea that would, in all reality, give me the space and the freedom and the breathing room I need to create MORE. To dream MORE.
And who knows where all that space may lead?