There are times I have sat in my small yet cozy home and wished for a larger living room, a tiled kitchen floor with a stainless steel glass top stove, and a new couch with matching chair and ottoman. But I have come to realize through raising a child and having family and friend gatherings that what matters is not the furnishings of my house but whether love seeps into every corner.
Over the years the hair shedding dog has slept on the couch in my absence, the latest kitten has repeatedly clawed the corners of the chair and cat pee and spit-ups have been cleaned up a thousand times from rugs, floors and down comforters. With an only child and the raising of home day care children for eight years, my house has that lived-in look. I admit I went through a period of railing against the universe each time I cleaned up the next mess: Why can't I have anything nice? All I want is simple elegance! Little did I know then that the lessons I needed to learn were just around the corner.
As the recession hit, we have felt lucky our small home is paid for. We have felt deep gratitude for our jobs and for our ability to save money for our daughter's college, although out-of-state tuition was killing us. Then our daughter recently decided to move back to Oregon to live with her then girl friend who was studying in Portland. Suddenly, my year of constant saving made me rich.
After going through a clothing and shoe shopping spree, I began reading, meditating, walking, writing. With my daughter gone, my small empty nest loomed large, surrounding me with mothering memories. Tears filled the corners. I had to begin again. I had to reinvent myself. I felt overwhelmed by my wants and needs. Yes, let's hire this guy at my husband's work to tile the kitchen floor. Let's redecorate the bathroom. Let's dig up the side garden and put in a new lawn. The house projects became endless and my self contentment diminished with each new décor I envisioned.
We made a visit to Portland, to see our daughter's new living space. We parked across the street from the five-story red brick building. There was an old fashioned broken buzzer by the locked front door, so we pulled out a cell phone to tell her we had arrived. She came downstairs and led us up to their studio on the second floor.
We entered their combined living room/bedroom which had a bed and a shelf for the non-functional television and their modest DVD collection. “Remember those large pillows in your bedroom that grandma made? They might be great for your floor in front of the television.” Her face lit up, “Yeah,” she replied. On the left side of this one open space was a narrow kitchen, capable of only one person cooking at a time. They had a small, square card table, but no chairs. On the right side was a decadently large (in comparison to the other dimensions of their studio) walk-in closet with two tall dressers and one long wooden rod for hanging their clothes. Going through this closet, one got to the tiny bathroom which had the usual wall sink, toilet and claw-foot tub with a removable shower device. Our daughter absolutely praised this bathroom because she had lived in a college dorm where the only bathroom on her floor seemed miles down the hallway.
Her girl friend had spread out a simple lunch for us of cheese, crackers and fresh fruit, plus goblets of mineral water. We had wanted to take them out to lunch, but this thoughtfulness touched us. “We don't have chairs,” they laughed as we sat on the bed or the floor to eat. The walls were covered with their own drawings; I recognized our daughter's batik cloth print covering one window shade; the vase of flowers I brought now added color to a shelf by the stove.
Memories floated to the surface of when my husband and I had first met. He stayed with me in my small studio, even smaller than the one we now ate lunch in. We clicked glasses and made toasts. I swallowed their every loving glance; I drank in their oozing of contentment, their bubbling of gratitude for simply being together.
Since their apartment happened to be located in a lovely neighborhood, a walk seemed natural. There was the bustling, trendy Hawthorne Boulevard to our right as we walked out the main entrance. We strolled the opposite way through Victorian style houses towards a meridian circle rose garden. I was captivated by the lushness of this garden which apparently was one of four, one at each corner of the tic-tac-toe-like crossed streets. The surrounding homes were a combination of well-worn two-story mansions and more modest one-story residences.
Across the garden was one such mauve-colored Craftsman. They were having a garage sale out front and there prominently displayed were a pair of chairs. My daughter and I simultaneously quickened our stride and were practically running to sit in those chairs. Each carved wood chair had a music staff design on the back and deep rose colored tweed cushions. They were perfect; my daughter and her girl friend are musicians. “We want to buy them for your apartment,” my husband and I said excitedly. The asking price was $35 for both chairs! What a bargain, we thought as we wrote the owner a check.
We proudly carried the chairs through the rose garden, down the neighborhood streets, through the halls and up the stairs to their studio. We placed the chairs by their table and Aspen and her girl friend immediately sat down in them. “We can dine elegantly now,” they teased. I have rarely felt happier than I did at that moment observing the glow on my daughter's face. It is all really so simple, I thought to myself.
When my husband of thirty years and I first met, we packed up all we owned in his van and my station wagon and drove north to Eugene, Oregon. When we rented our cozy one-bedroom duplex, we only had my childhood rocking chair and his childhood bureau drawers. We slept on a foam pad. I bought yarn and braided a rug. We found a used kitchen table and chairs plus a two person couch. My husband made my desk by copying one I wanted at a furniture store. I don't think I have ever felt more fulfilled than I was during those early years. We filled our lives with friends. We filled our lives with family. We filled our lives with love. Sitting in my daughter's Portland studio, watching her radiating happiness, I remembered and reminded myself to treasure the simplicity in my own life.
© 2010
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