Small Spaces

I have never had a fear of small spaces. I always rather enjoyed them. Something about the closeness of walls, the cocoon, the knowing exactly what surrounds me, it brings me peace. Perhaps it's that old adage about the security of the womb that applies to my affection for small places. Perhaps it's just the control I feel when I can easily identify my surroundings. Perhaps it's just being crazy.

When I lived in Brooklyn, we lived in a one bedroom apartment. The bedroom was large enough to be two bedrooms. There was a small semi wall division that gave the illusion of 2 bedrooms but really, it was one big bedroom with a half wall, shared by the entire family. It was an old apartment with a long hallway between the living room and where the bedrooms were. Halfway down the hall was the bathroom and at the end of the hall, right before the living room was a closet. This closet measured approximately 8.5 feet long by 3.5 feet wide. How do I know this? Because that is where I lived for years. Because that closet was big enough for one twin size bed, one night stand and nothing more.

I needed my space. I longed for it. I had spoken to my parents about my need for privacy and since moving was not an option, I suggested using the closet as my new bedroom. They laughed, giggled and after many weeks of my relentless pleas for the closet, they gave in.

One afternoon after school, I moved my twin size bed, (mattress, box spring, no frame) and a little nightstand into the closet. The bed fit surrounded/touching the walls on 3 sides, at the foot of the bed was my nightstand and in front of the night stand was enough space for walking into the closet and climbing in/out of the foot of the bed. My source of light was a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling with a pull string. Thus began my love of small spaces.

Family and friends thought it was odd. Some people thought it was cruelty on my parents behalf. I thought it was heaven. I spent every chance I had in the closet. I did homework in there, read for hours, ate snacks and wrote in my journals. When I stood on the bed and pulled the string on the bulb before bed, there was pitch black, darkness. I'd lay in bed surrounded by my thoughts, fantasies and enveloped by a lack of light that would have frightened most children.

After high school, I moved to Massachusetts and came out of the closet, literally. All my adult life I have lived in big spaces. Large homes, light and airy. My current home is always filled with sunlight and cool tropical breezes. Doors and windows are open all day and all night. I love the freshness of keeping things open, the beauty of seeing the shadows and prisms caused by the sunlight. But on days when the world seems to beat me down and I feel melancholy, my thoughts drift back to the closet. Memories of a small dark space, where the loudest sound was my own breathing, where the only pressure came from my own thoughts and fantasies, where my love of writing filled the pages of countless journals.

I sometimes long for the closet and although I never regret "coming out of the closet", I sometimes long for the small dark space where a little girl escaped the realities of poverty, racism and violence. The closet where she dreamed of the countless adventures filled with beauty, that her life had yet encountered.