My Own Private Burrow
So, anyway.
During my convalescence this winter, I decided to reclaim the basement. Ever since the great flood of '11 it's only been used for storage, on account of our fears of mold and dust vis-a-vis my allergies and poor health. At one point The God-King made an effort to make it more habitable by painting the cement in Kills (Killz?), but he didn't make it past the vestibule at the base of the stairs--an area I annexed for The Empress' art supplies--but for the most part we just go down to get food from the deep freezer.
At some point, though, I flipped a switch. When my parents lived here, the basement was an important part of the functional living space. It's a good, big, and--most importantly--a quiet space, ideal for me to sneak off and work (whatever that means) whether or not other (i.e. smaller) people are afoot in the house.
It's also a space that has long-held good energy for me--happy home feels from the days when it was our original family room, with the huge old turn-dial TV that had just thirteen channels (one of which was static). This is the space where, in my very oldest memories, I watched Davy Crockett on comfy sofas with my big brothers. And then later, different kinds of happy from when it was my bedroom as a teenager: just coming into myself, shucking off the trauma of childhood to discover I was a young woman with certain merits. This is the space where I wrote my first poetry; where I aced my way through high school; where I had my first encounters with desire.
After everything I've been through this year, medically, I decided, fuck it. At least I know now it's not the allergens giving me these headaches. I can't imagine my condition can be made any worse from spending time down there, especially if I pop a Loratadine in the morning, and make an effort to get some fresh air in equal measures. And so, from the moment the post-op restrictions were lifted, I've been clearing space down here, reclaiming land from the wild west of insect life and gigantic dust bunnies. I started with my old writing desk--the behemoth we brought with us from the townhouse when the Kinglet was barely two, which Tom said he would never move again except with an axe. Well, says I, until that day, there's still plenty of life left if the old girl--lots of drawers to fill, and lots of clear space to write upon, should the urge to do so strike me (as it has with this post).
There's still a lot of work to do be done (I can't understate the dirt & dust bunnies), but I'm truly enjoying myself in the interim. I strung Christmas lights over the exposed wood beams and box piles--something I wish I'd thought to do back when I slept here. Just that one thing had a dramatic effect on the ambient energy--now it's a place I want to be, a place that lifts my spirits as soon as enter it. The idea is, as I get more and more organized, it'll get cleaner, more--you know, finished--and more personalized.
I set up the glider, facing the desk, so I can work on my cardio while the weather is still so cold. I'm up to 10 minutes a day, about 3 times a week--not much, but the momentum is building. And I set up workspaces for my resale projects, with the hope of clearing out the big stuff locally and getting my online stores up and running again. I even managed to make some bank this month. Not being able to contribute to the family finances is such an insult to my sense of self; but being able to repurpose this space as an office/studio, and that leading to actual financial benefit, goes a long way to restoring my sense of usefulness and involvement in life.
The neatest thing, though, is that I can feel myself healing through being here. As if it's helping me through this current transition, just as it helped me recover from my childhood and evolve into something even better in my adolescence. An underground burrow wherein to hibernate. My own personal cacoon.
For anyone needing to emerge from a painful past; I highly recommend getting yourself a basement to rest in. Metaphorically or otherwise.