My Own Creation

I started in my backyard. It was a beautiful day, and although it’s supposed to be winter, the sun was out and the only noise to be heard was of birds rustling through the limited leaves left on the trees and the neighbors talking through the fence. It was peaceful. I had my binder out on the black wire table, ready to write, but the sun was pounding on my back, and for some reason I couldn’t think; this environment was not good enough. Changing destination, I moved to the computer thinking that the noise could be tuned out with YouTube and I could type to my heart’s content – but it still was not good enough. Once of again the stack of unorganized and scribbled-upon papers and the messy binder were on the move. I moved down the dim hallway to the white door.

This door had chipped paint from the pealing of stickers, and the fascination with taping things. There is a slight creak in this door as it opens to the blindingly bright green and blue walls; the light was streaming in from the half open blinds. The room is different from any other in the house; it is the room that has captured so many of my memories. It is the room that portrays who I am and how I have grown, and it is the room that is finally good enough.

When one first steps in from the dark, all you see is white: there are prim white blinds, white book cases, white closet doors and shelves, and a white bed frame off of which the light reflects. The initial silence and glow of the room give it an aura of serenity; the soft touch of the newly vacuumed carpet on bare feet is a familiar comfort, and sinking into the well-known cloud that is my bed is like sitting on the lap of God. When you first step in, you see the jumble of messed up sheets and a collection of mismatched pillows, waiting for a tired body to crawl inside its warmth. There is an old, worn, Lion King pillow case reminding one of the childhood slipping away from everywhere except your dreams and there are old, stuffed animals that have been pushed away into the corners. Soft, warm, relaxing – my bed is the perfect refuge.

Across the room there are white cubby-like bookcases filled with the organized mess of books I bought at book fairs, but never read, stacks of papers and text books that are frequently used and strewn across my bed, and a pair of bright blue and green running shoes tucked into a corner waiting for the next cross country season. On the top of it all is a chubby cat having a constant staring contest with the never changing views outside my window; she’s perched like the room is her kingdom and the outside world is the enemy. Dangling off one side of the shelf is a purple and black friendship bracket that remains unfinished, and on top lies the clock set six minutes fast, and old pictures of some friends reminding me of the good times we have had. Most importantly, next to other random objects stands my iPod – old and cracked, scratched and smudged, scuffed and loved – which was rarely away from its dock. This iPod, playing the smooth sound of Alternative or the upbeat tang of a country song, gives the atmosphere a more inviting touch in the room that has become more and more personalized for my desires.

On the off-white shelves, hanging above the bed, sits the mementos that have made me who I am: Pictures from the numerous teams I have had the pleasure of being a part of, and trophies that are meaningless other than for acknowledging participation. There is the not so girly Star Wars ship, but there are also the stuffed animals and teddy bears that I have received throughout the years. Both of which have helped me to connect better with many different types of people because I have gathered info on the general items that most children would have received.

One of my favorite parts of my room is the closet door. It’s signed. It’s colorful. It’s meaningful. My closet door is covered with the endearing comments of friends that have been in and out of my room. It has pictures that reflect memories, and memories that create pictures.

The closet is a small but crowded place; it is smaller than some of the others closets in the house, but bigger than others. It was built not for a teenage girl, but more for the liking of a child; there was not enough space for hangers, but more empty room as if to be filled with toys and boxes, as it once had. Now the closet still has boxes, but boxes filed with the old art supplies that are no longer wanted and numerous hangers shoved together to fit the collected sweatshirts and old dresses waiting for summer. The closet has now become a storage place for the shells that I was once “collecting” and knick-knacks of all different sorts. It has become a storage place for the different pieces of different activities I have collected throughout the different years, like a baseball mitt and soccer bag and softball helmet and a violin and a trumpet and most recently, rhythmic equipment. Each piece reminding me of a different phase I went through and a different part of my life that I can now look back on.

The outside world was separated from my room by nothing more than a sliding glass window covered with a shield of white blinds; this outside was much less preferable than the inside, and it was this outside that the warm blankets and memorable pillows were shielding me from. My bedroom held a plethora of potential and memories and personal touches. The carpet felt soft and the dirt felt hard; the bedside lamp looked warm and the streetlamps looked cold; the room was set up for personal comfort and the outside was set up for natural displeasure. But I had an understanding that not all places can be a personal sanctuary, and for there to be a warm, inviting inside, there must be a cold, desolate outside.

- Beth