The title made me laugh. My space. Not My Space. Remember that? Who even uses My Space anymore?
No, this "my space" is a place I've been missing.
Long, long ago, I had my own "office." I use that term loosely, although I did run the household from that room. But I also crafted, assembled party bags, wrapped gifts, scrapbooked, checked email, and did some writing in there. The room became a catch-all of sorts - just off the kitchen, it was a handy space to stash whatever littered the kitchen table.
Then the bonus child needed a room and so it was cleaned out and cleared out, painted bubble-gum pink and splashed with Hello Kitty. It was a little girl's dream room for a short time until the little girl convinced her oldest sister to switch with her.
Then it was a teenager's room, complete with cups littering the windowsill, laundry obliterating the floor, and the pink walls covered with magazine cut outs. It housed a young adult for hours while she existed in an online universe, dusted with makeup and dreams. It sat like a shrine for a year while she went to college, only to welcome her back for another year; this time, a fledgling adult who came and went and squeezed past boxes holding dorm-room necessities.
Then, it was empty again. Except for the keepsakes of childhood, the room no longer housed a person: child, teen, young adult, adult.
Now it's mine again. It's empty, it's walls washed with primer, waiting for a coat of new paint. I dream of a "home office" but so much more. A writer's retreat, with a desk facing the huge window looking out onto the greenbelt. A room to practice my long-ignored yoga practice. A place to rest and to house guests from time to time. A place of peace and inspiration and creativity.
My room. My space. Full circle.