Making room
Can we turn down the volume around here?
If listening works best, I offer an audio recording here. ⤵️
There are household projects we put off because they are expensive, or complicated, or require specialized knowledge, like rewiring something that could accidentally kill you. And then there are the projects that stick around because the human brain is capable of adapting to almost anything if exposed to it long enough, including a bedroom the color of Pixar fever dream.
When my daughters were teenagers, we painted their rooms Evil Minion purple and Grinch green, choices that made perfect sense at the time because they were seventeen and fifteen, respectively. Adolescence is a period during which strong preferences are confused with a timeless aesthetic vision, which is also the entire theory of the tattoo industry.
One daughter left for a job in the Southwest in 2017, the other completed her exit in installments, a little more gone each year, before finally moving to Australia in 2022. Two months later, we painted over her green room. I say “we,” but all I did was cheerlead and document.
Trimming days of work down to 25 seconds makes it look so easy!
The whole project took longer than planned, like they always do. The purple room could wait for us to gather up a new head of steam.
Now, before anyone turns this into some poignant metaphor about motherhood and the passage of time, let me clarify: I was not sitting outside the room weeping softly into a basket of cherished preschool artwork, though I admit to having said artwork. The room stayed purple because every time we considered painting it, the world produced another fresh hell.
There were the first Trump years, and then Covid, and I feel compelled to mention that we were working the whole damn time, because the cultural memory of the Before Times has become heavily curated by people who apparently spent eighteen months gestating sourdough starters and developing meaningful relationships with their herb gardens. But some of us were still getting up every morning, doing our jobs and wiping down groceries like raccoons with OCD. Putting the fun in functional, I’m telling you.
So the purple room remained purple through all of it: the elections, the pandemic, the endless screaming vortex of American public life, and a modern era during which the news cycle oscillates between constitutional collapse and Katy Perry shooting across the sky.
The pre-purchased paint was called "Raindrops on…" and that's as far as the label got once time and closet humidity took over. Reminded me of the inscription on the cave wall in Monty Python’s Holy Grail: "He who is valiant and pure of spirit may find the Holy Grail in the Castle of… aughhh!"
The room looked increasingly ridiculous. We had, at best, a concept of a plan.
This spring we finally hired someone to do the work. Four days and a lot of furniture shuffling later, the room is now a soft pale pink that reads calm and restorative, although there may be narrow window around 4:30 p.m. when it takes on the ambiance of an upscale tuberculosis sanatorium. Still, I love it! At this point in history, if a paint color doesn’t raise my blood pressure, that is money well spent.
At roughly the same moment we were painting the room, the imperious Donald Trump unveiled the architectural renderings for the triumphal arch he plans to build at the end of Arlington National Cemetery in Washington D.C, an arch that would tower over the Lincoln Memorial by 100 feet. Nothing says stable civilization like monumental vanity. Triumph arches were apparently irresistible to rulers with highly developed interests in grandeur, permanence, and themselves: Caesar had arches, Napoleon had arches, Kim Il-sung had arches. I look at giant symbolic structures like that and immediately think, “Ah yes. A restrained and emotionally healthy society.”
Recently, I’ve been feeling an irrepressible urge to deal with some of the crap that has piled up around here in the 15 years since we moved in (and let our kids pick their room colors). I knew at the start that it was more than spring cleaning and have since realized that it’s about controlling my surroundings in response to the chaos around me. It’s also about doing what I can to not put any more weight on the shoulders of my offspring when the time comes for me and their dad to make a full exit. I hope this isn’t some prescient foreshadowing of a near-term departure for us, but if that turns out to be the case–well kids, just know it could’ve been worse.
The room is done. The closets are getting there. The plan for a gigantic arch is still being pushed forward by people who have never once stood staring at paint swatches wondering if “Raindrops on…(aughhh)” was going to be too pink.
A daughter arrives this week after a long time gone and a long journey home. She’ll sleep in the room she still considers hers. She’s calmed down a lot since the green years. Maybe the paint was part of the energy back then? The purple room, freshly raindropped, will be ready for whoever needs it next.
Out in the world, the arch nemesis waits, enormous and certain of itself in a way that has historically not ended well for arches or the men who commissioned them.
I’m going to go see if the linen cabinet sparks joy.
~Elizabeth
Afterward:
Each week I close with something small and doable, because I believe in the power of tiny actions taken by a lot of people. Our spheres of influence are bigger than we give ourselves credit for, and doing something, however modest, beats the paralysis of feeling like nothing is enough.
Try This:
The triumphal arch at Arlington requires congressional approval and federal funding. Which means you can weigh in. For this and many of the most pressing issues of the moment,5calls.org — and the free 5 Calls app — gives you your representatives’ names, numbers, and a ready-made script. You don’t need a speech. “I oppose federal funding for a triumphal arch at Arlington National Cemetery” is a complete sentence and a legitimate communication to an elected official. They work for you, and you can always call after hours and leave a voicemail.
The linen cupboard, for the record, did not spark joy. But it did spark a fairly satisfying garbage bag.
What’s your version of the purple room right now, literal or otherwise? And on the flip side: what’s the thing you finally dealt with that surprised you with how good it felt? The comments are a good place for all of it; I read every one. And—chime in if I’m right about this—lots of readers also read the comments, so it’s a fun place to share your ideas.
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