Welcome to My Happy Place

Hello Everyone or Simply One,
When I first began this Web site I operated on the assumption that if only one person read my words that was one person I was possibly bringing closer to God. Some"one" was hearing my story of God in my life. But then discouragement hit as I didn't think "enough" people were reading my words. But what is enough?

Yesterday I heard someone comment that when one simply stops writing on their Web site that is the same as saying to the readers, "I don't care about you anymore." That hit home with me. I do care about you. There is much I must do to ensure that more people read my blogs. But that's what I have to do. It's not your fault. So if you are but one or many I would like to share with you the column I wrote for Mom Writer's Literary Magazine in the Spring/Summer issue. I write the column Just Another Manic Momday for the magazine as well as serving as copy editor. Welcome to My Happy Place. I am writing to you from my happy place right now.

Here I am needing to write again. And it is a need for me, like breathing, food and love – it’s one of the must-haves in my life. When I pick up my pen I am transported out.

Out of: bickering boys, work-at-home husband, endless laundry, mountains of dishes, book revisions, Web site updates, MWLM copy editing. I am gone from all these places to my mythical Happy Place. If only for a little while, I tune everybody out. But soon the sheer unadulterated pleasure of peace and quiet is obliterated.

“Mom, he’s been playing that game all day. I want to pick on TV.”

“I’m not bringing Max in. I took him out.”

“Don’t hang up. This is not a sales call.” Yeah, right. Click.

And the ever-present husband who simply can’t, or won’t, see my laptop when he enters the room. I see myself. I am there sitting on my bed, fingers flying, eyes fixed, brain concentrating. But my computer must have a cloak of invisibility to it. I do not look up. I do not speak. But it’s coming. I know it’s coming.

“Whatcha doing?”

“Brain surgery, Sweetie. That’s what I’m doing. Want a free lobotomy? I can fit you right in.”

Concentration wrecked. Constant replay of this broken record is not healthy as I am not exactly sweet-as-sugar when interrupted. Atmosphere tense, tempers erupt. I just want to scream, “This is my new life. Sons grown. Maid gig over. Writer-life emerging. Get used to it!”

A huge contributing factor to the inner turmoil is that I have no place to call my own in this 1823 farmhouse. We had a little pantry; our dog, Max, woofed his way into that. We had a small room upstairs; my youngest son settled there. No livable space left. Full up. Except…one spot – our red room. Ridiculous name. It’s not even red. Plaster chunks hang from the ceiling, no electrical outlets, one rickety hanging light fixture, no heat, and piles of useless junk crammed from floor to crumbling ceiling. Dismal to most, but lovely to me because it is the absolute last vestige of possible sanity without mailing change-of-address cards.

My years of idealistic home improvement aspirations have deteriorated worse than my ceiling into a resigned realism. Cold, stark, in-your-face realism. This space is my only option – my final frontier. Either claim it or check into the looney bin sooner or later, most likely sooner. This large Federal style home has only two closets, next-to-no cupboards, and few drawers. But six people’s junk has to go somewhere, so everything was thrown into the red room.

Last week I couldn’t safely walk into the room. Couldn’t actually see a glimpse of the floor. Just junk upon junk. But basket by basket, bin by bin, beginning at the doorway, I hauled our discarded treasures into the hallway to sort. Very little made the Keep Me cut. One quick glance told me all I needed to know. If someone else could use it, I white-bagged it; otherwise, black-bagged for the dump. No vacillation. No, Maybe someday somehow someone may want this Bingo game. Highly unlikely my sons, ages 18-23, will ever become so mind-numbingly bored as to ask the question, “Where is that Bingo game Mom bought years ago that we’ve never even opened? We have a sudden urge to play.” Whoville-opoly as well as Hunting and Fishing Trivia white-bagged with Bingo.

In a matter of an hour and a half, I sorted down to the floor clearing a skinny path to the window – source of light, heat and hope. I charted my week’s progress with photographs. I want to remember how horrid it looked. Not sure why. But I do. Our grand sum of purged clutter stuffed the bed of a pick truck; Goodwill loves me.

What mom out there isn’t familiar with the childhood favorite, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie? Such was my encounter one gloriously fun day, only I dub it, “If You Give a Mom a Refund Check.” What a pretty desk. Pretty desk needs comfortable chair. Desk and chair must sit atop plush rug. Let there be light – once electrician comes – shining on this writer’s trio. Enter charming lamp. Spare twin bed stolen from son aches for frilly, girly sheets. Sheet set screams for pastel quilt as the lilac scent of candles begs to fill the air.

Now for my hopeful decorations – Picture, if you will: a brightly colored pillow adorned with the words, “Believe. Create. Inspire;” a plaque aptly summing up my life, “Yesterday a beautiful reflection. Today a new beginning. Tomorrow a limitless possibility;” a six-inch diameter ball, “Believe in Miracles;” and by far, my favorite acquisition is “Welcome to My Happy Place,” painted simply on a small piece of wood.

Ironically, this cheery open-arms greeting is for one woman and one woman alone, and that would be me! No one else in the house is going to be welcome. Welcome to my Happy Place, writer mom. All others keep out. Beware. No trespassing. Offenders will be shot with a volley of dirty looks and “About face” commands. I have set up writer’s shop away from the clueless. Boys lugged furniture upstairs. Floor washed. Rug laid. Sheets fluffed. Candle lit. Mom happy.

I’m making my dreams come true one lovely thought at a time. If I can do it, you can too. Make the space. Take the time. And keep the rest of the world out!

~ Maureen :)