A woman without a country

Sound a little melodramatic?  Yea.  I know.  And yet, it fairly adequately describes how I am feeling.  I have had a place of my own, my very own, for the last nine years or so.  It was an old bedroom abandoned by a recently graduated daughter who was striking out and making her own way in the world.  Counting on squatters' rights, I quickly moved in to claim my territory.

And the rest is history.  It has become my sanctuary.  It has become home to all my many "precious" acquisitions, mostly tools for paper crafting. It has become the place one could always find me on a quiet afternoon when most of the housework was in hand.

Over the years it took on a personality all its own, really.  It welcomed me with open arms, even as the "stuff" grew and expanded and threatened to choke out even my own little corner and my own little chair.

To peek in at the shrine that used to be, check out the pictures here.

That's right.  USED TO BE.  It is gone.  It is an empty shell of a room, bare except for two large storage cabinets that have been moved to the center to accommodate the removal of old wallpaper and the application of glorious new paint. I'm sure I will hardly recognize the place.

Meanwhile, I am stranded.  I am rattling around this old house, trying to find where I belong.  The kitchen?   Only occasionally.  The laundry room?  Please!  As little as possible. The family room?  Only when there's family around.

I have tried borrowing Brian's office.  It is a beautiful, quiet, restful place.  And yet I feel like a visitor.

Eye on the prize.  Eye on the prize!  Even though I am feeling displaced, as I consider the promise of my newly remodeled room, I am filled with anticipation and delight.  It will be spectacular.  I know it will.

But what do I do in the meantime?