catapult magazine

catapult magazine
 

Vol 8, Num 17 :: 2009.09.04 — 2009.09.17

 
 

A room of our own

Jane.

Karla.

Duke.

Beverly.

Karen.

Dad.

Mom.

It is 11:30 p.m. and we are still in our paint clothes, working by the light of a halogen lamp.  For the second week in a row, we’ve caught Jonathan Goldstein’s program Wiretap on NPR and his dry humor would make us laugh out loud, if it weren’t for our need to conserve what little energy we have left to make it to tonight’s finish line.  Where will I do laundry?  When will I even have time to do laundry?  We are tired and, we keep saying, “home-free” until this expedited renovation can finally meet code.

Julie.

Amber.

Amy.

Ryan.

Mary.

I remember reading Virginia Woolf’s classic in high school about what women need for a progressive writerly life and feeling quite proud of myself for doing so.  How many of us have that little phrase etched in our minds so that it pops up in both related and unrelated circumstances?  A Room of One’s Own.  A powerful title, speaking longings into existence.  It is a good longing in many ways: the desire for a space in which to create, to be still, to keep one’s special pen (or laptop).  To some degree, it describes the longing that keeps us going here, nearing midnight, shoulders barely responding as we distract ourselves from the aches with talk radio.  Funny, the memories that surface in moments of extreme exhaustion.

Suzanne.

Rebecca.

Bob.

Kim.

Jeff.

Connie.

Charles.

And yet, none of these rooms will ever be for one. Virginia.  That large room in front with the two tall windows ­­— I tease my Grandpa and tell him it’s the mistress bedroom — will be the temple of a marriage, where two live out the drama of becoming one flesh, one of the smallest communities of all communities.  That other room will be a space of cultivation — the work of our minds and hands for the public sphere, a soft place for guests to sleep, perhaps a secret hideout under the bed should children come.  And that open space that seems so endless to us now: that space is for our connection to land and plants and animals and people in the food we eat and the beverages we drink.  It is for our connection to filmmakers and writers and painters and friends: a room for living and for rumpus (no formality here, please).

Marty.

Erin.

Daniel.

Ken.

Gail.

Andy.

Cuthbert.

Peggy.

With each brush stroke, each soaking of the roller, we cast on a coat of not just paint, but of people, too.  The colors are Breaktime and Rushing River, Honeycomb and Chardonnay Bottle, but the true names are infinitely more human than these.

Michael.

Alyssa.

Dave.

Chris.

Kara.

Mark.

Larry.

We would be foolish to ever think or act as if that this land, these bricks, this mortar and wood can ever really be ours.  After nearly 150 years of history, dozens of people we can name and hundreds we cannot all shape the spirit of a place we will take care of for our little while.  And we hope that it might take care of us, too, just half as well as all of the friends and family who have lifted a hammer, carried a load, brushed a stroke or made a quiche.  We asked for help and you came, the hands and feet of the One who promises to answer always.  We are speechless because we are exhausted, but also because we are:

So.

Very.

Grateful.


For more on the VG-R renovation project in Three Rivers, Michigan, visit our visual chronicle online or our blog.

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