My senior year in college was the first time I ever had my own room. Said room, in the upstairs of a student apartment in Puffton Village, Amherst, was about the size of my walk-in closet. It. Was. TINY. But it was mine. Just mine. And as much as I loved sharing a room with my sister, which I did so much that I sobbed when she moved out of the house, and in fact, still considered the room we'd shared "ours" not "mine," having a space that was just mine was amazing to me. So, the tininess of the room didn't bother me much. I did so much growing up in that room. I changed more in that single year than I probably have during much longer chunks of my life.
I wrote my thesis in that room. I wrote prolific, if not very good, poetry. I read more books than I could count. Books that changed my life. And through much of it, I listened to the advance copy of Ani DiFranco's Little Plastic Castle that my Dad had given me when it was sent to the Coop's record department. It's still among my all time favorite albums. Hardcore Ani devotees would probably argue that it's among her more commercial endeavors and that it's not actually her best work. Yea. I could not possibly care less. That album signifies something so special and personal to me that it's about more than the music.
Having a sanctuary is an amazing thing. That tiny bedroom in Puffton was that for me. It was a place where I felt more myself than I'd felt since before my thyroid collapse. It was a safe place. If I could go back and spend a night in that little room, I totally would. I would love to be able to go back and check out all the candles and posters and tapestries and collages, many of which I'm sure I've forgotten over the years. It's not that I would trade my life now for my life then, not a chance, but I'd love to be able to visit.
And I think that, although the girl sitting in that room, writing furiously while listening to Ani would be surprised at some of the turns my life has taken (and probably disgusted that I'm not a best-selling author yet), that she would be really relieved to hear that I finally found "him" and that we are a team and that we have B&E and a home we love. She wouldn't be as shocked as I wish she would to hear that Dad is gone, although she would be no less devastated for it. She would be so stoked to hear about all the amazing things her siblings and friends have done in the intervening years.
What got me thinking about all of this? A pop up ad showed up on a site I was on yesterday, advertising an Ani DiFranco show in Concord, NH. The promo picture of Ani was...surprising. She kind of looked like someone I might have a glass of wine and chat with. And it's not that I haven't seen a picture of her in the last 15 years, I have. The transition from combative, dread-locked youngster to folk music veteran has been gradual, of course. Just like my transition from shy poet in Docs and cords to Mom in skinny jeans and boots. We all change. We all evolve. But staying in touch with past versions of ourselves is such an important part of that, to me.
