Sanctuary

I grew up as an only child in a poor and tumultuous household. There were few luxuries, but one that I could always count on was having my own room. My parents and I only lived in two houses during my childhood. We moved into the second one when I was about seven years old. I remember being thrilled about having a new room, and getting to choose the colour of the paint on the walls. (Being seven, I chose pink, a decision I regretted a couple of years later.)

Back then, the most important part of my room was the door. I could shut it if I wanted to. This gave me a (sometimes false) sense of security. In my room I could do whatever I wanted to do without being bothered. Theoretically. Until my parents suspected me of something. Then they'd come in and ransack the place looking for "evidence" of whatever they suspected me of. That's not what I'm going to talk about here, though.

For most of my adult life, I have been transient. I have moved at least a dozen times in the last ten years, from the first time I left my mother's house to live with my then-boyfriend and his family, to the most recent move to my current apartment with Matt. I haven't always had my own space. I found that, in living situations where I could not have my own space, I never felt like I really lived there. I was missing that place of peace, that sanctuary in which I could find rest.

As a sort of gypsy, I have left behind many more belongings than I have kept. Things like books, furniture, CDs, video game systems, computers and non-essential articles of clothing have seldom remained in my possession for longer than a few months. To me, these are "trade goods." The cash they brought when I needed it was worth more to me than the objects themselves. However, a few special and sacred objects have traveled with me since the beginning of my journey to find "home: A hexagonal wooden box I received as a Christmas present in my teens; Celtic-print sari that I have used as a wall-hanging since 2002; various gemstones, tools and other objects I use for spiritual purposes; a few favourite toys and collectibles.

One thing I am good at is making whatever space is available to me "mine" in very little time once I know I'm going to be sticking around a while. I create a space that is comforting, familiar, and safe. A space I am proud of. Somewhere that I can bring visitors if I choose, if I trust them enough to bring them to my inner sanctum. I'm proud of the space I create. I like to share it with people I think are worth getting to know, because it says a lot about me.

This is my room. It serves as my office, my bedroom, and my temple. Its tidiness or, alternately, its state of disarray, is an indicator of my state of mind and my comfortability in my own skin. When things are hectic and stressful, it is essential that I have a space that is uncluttered and clear of reminders of that stress. After the bedbug treatment and all of the craziness that led up to it, I felt an urgent need to restore and "re-align" my space. I put away everything on my altar during the pest treatment. When it was done, I bought new bedclothes. Even though I was exhausted when I came home, still dealing with pain, I immediately cleaned put everything back the way it was. I put the new bedspread and pillows on my bed, I heat-treated and re-hung my fabric wall-hangings, and I cleansed and re-dedicated my altar. I immediately felt better.

People might think it's weird that I have a room separate from my husband's, but having this sanctuary to come back to helps enormously when I face stressful situations, or even just busy days. I can breathe in here. I can invite Matt in, or not. I can meditate, I can pray, I can create. Most importantly, I can rest. A physically and spiritually comfortable place to rest is perhaps more important to me than it is to most people. Because of my fibromyalgia and back pain, I spend a lot of time in bed. For better or for worse, my bed is a very important part of my sanctuary. When my back hurts too much to even sit in my padded office chair, this is where I write. When I go to bed, this is where I sleep, and if it's uncomfortable, I will feel it in the morning.

Having bedbugs invade this space set my teeth on edge, as if I hadn't already been traumatized from the first time we dealt with these tiny demons. Now, for the first time in several weeks, I feel truly safe here again. There will be follow-up treatments, but they don't require the same level of disruption. In a way, I'm grateful for having been compelled to tidy my sanctuary, because it definitely seems I've gotten a lot of the negative energy out of here. However, I still feel like this is the only comfortable place in the house. The rest of the place just feels barely-lived-in and sort of chaotic. This feeling of disconnection and lack of permanency is partly why it is difficult to motivate myself to be a better housekeeper. (The rest of the problem is physical pain and fatigue.)

Every time I've moved, I've gotten just a little closer to finding "home." But it seems every time I get my space feeling just how I want it to feel, it's time to move again. Matt and I will be looking to get out of this neighbourhood sometime after our lease is up in November, when our rental agreement goes month-to-month. I'm no longer going to settle for someplace that "doesn't feel quite right". This time, I want to find a place that feels like a sanctuary in every room, for me and Matt.