Room is a word whose diminutive stature and common presence mask its central place in so many of our stories. We're told we have room for improvement and we ask for a room with a view. Not leaving your room for a week generates giggles in one context and concern in another. Attaching a tiny word like dorm to the beginning brings to mind faces and stories and clever uses of space. Placing mate at the end recalls treasured friends, dalliances regretted or fondly remembered, and arguments over missing leftovers. Boardrooms, bedrooms, living rooms — all conjure up memories, plot lines, and arguments.
I'm writing this from my new room, an office filled with small treasures—treasured gifts, Cuisenaire rods, prints and album covers, and a kaleidoscope.
There's something different about a room of your own, where inspirations and little bursts of happiness are everywhere you turn. Then again, whenever I find myself marveling at this haven, I look over at the empty couch and think of people I wish were sitting on it. Every room should leave room for others.