Contemplative Jenn is ice on fire
Our master bedroom looks like someone put the holiday season in a blender, left the top off, and turned the dial to frappe. Wrapping paper, bows, and boxes are everywhere, as well as some as of yet ungiven gifts, unfolded and forgotten laundry tucked away from company, and a host of other miscellany. Over the months, in fact, our bedroom has become the storage vessel for a variety of things that don’t belong there. Dressers are cluttered with broken toys, stuffed animals in need of minor surgery. Books are piled high in corners and on bedside tables. It’s no wonder I don’t rush to bed each night. It’s no wonder that the mornings there begin with a sense of chaos instead of one of possibility. A bedroom should be an oasis of calm, a place of respite, not a workshop or a closet, or a pre-discardia limbo.
So tomorrow, Saturday, fueled by some hot, strong coffee, some well-chosen music, and a 40 oz. can of stone cold resolve (a.k.a. whoop ass), I will spend as long as it takes to take back the master bedroom. I will put away or throw away, then clean with a vengeance, and maybe even redecorate the space, light some candles, re-christen or consecrate, so that it can once again be a bedroom, instead of just a room with a bed.
