It has been a long time since I last felt I lived in a place with enough space. Ever since leaving home for university, in fact, and thus setting off on a series of dorms and apartments . . . And then there was the house in Massachusetts, but though it certainly should have had enough space (at least technically, at the beginning), there was something so close about it—”cozy” one supposes, which is fine for some, but I need light and air—that I never did feel I had anywhere to go.
Perhaps that is what I mean by “enough space”: having somewhere to go, away from anyone else.
I am an only child, and the two chief houses I grew up in (one from ages 3 to 11, the other from 11 to 18) always had space “enough” for just the three of us. It’s no big effort, I guess, to find a place with at least two bedrooms. The house we lived in when I was older had four bedrooms, only one of which was upstairs, and when my parents got tired of climbing the stairs, they gave that room and its dedicated bathroom and loft area to me. Spoiled? Probably. But everyone in my family is of the temperament that requires a certain amount of time alone to decompress, so the extra large house made it possible for all of us to get along without being on top of one another and fighting all the time.
You see, we all had somewhere to go when we needed to.
Right now there is much unpacking and sorting, and I mostly want to get my office set up, and my little English garden, because these will be my special places when all is said and done. I will go to these spots to write and think and breathe and find quiet. I am very much looking forward to that.