My Nirvana

I walk up to it.  I undo the rusted latch and opened the weathered door.  My worries and anxieties melt away from me like a Dairy Queen treat on a hot day.  My dad’s lifetime ago, I would be standing in a revolting mess of poultry feces.  Thankfully, today I am in my home away from home.  Instead of heat lamps hanging from the support beams, homemade decorators adorn the ceiling.  Where tiny chickens would grow from the size of an egg to plump hearty grown chickens, I’ve grown too.  About eight summers ago, I begged (okay, maybe just said please) my grandma to let me take over her old chicken coop.  It was the perfect place to have my clubhouse.  Along with the neighbor girls next door, and my parents and aunt, I emptied the old coop and cleaned it out.

Then began the the search for some cool furniture.  My mom loved to garage sale.  She always took a vacation day on the city wide garage sales, especially Richmond’s.  Over the years I have collected pieces to complete my space.  Like most little girls I liked (and still like) to do projects, so it’s mostly a craft room.  I have a cheap, particle board desk that I have the freedom to be as messy as my creativity takes me.  My aunts decided to get my grandma an automated recliner (which she now hates), which means that I got her old hand me down rocking chair.  The comfort from being crooked in my grandma’s arm, and the gentle sway of the chair are some of the best memories I have with my grandma when I was younger.  She would rock me to sleep in that chair with me wrapped up in a handmade blue alphabet tie quilt.  The rocking chair is like your favorite pair of jeans.  It fits just right and has the perfect support that cradles your body.  My ten year old self thought camping was like a secret club that everyone wanted to be in.  I had never been camping before (never have yet either for that matter).  Because of this dream my aunt got  me a small bed from a garage sale.  Sadly, I don’t spend as much time as I used in my clubhouse.  I would spend days upon days in the summer doing projects from painting, to coloring, to cutting, and gluing, while combining all of them to make some glorious project that I don’t have anymore.  However, my most favorite pass time in my clubhouse is to do nothing.

I look to my left and see a mammoth obscure mass in the sky.  My trained ear can hear the soft rumble of the mass that sounds as if I am at a horse race.  Instantly, a grin widens across my face.  From the advice that gets passed down from generation to generation, I knew it was going to rain.  Besides the obvious dark mass in the cloud, the leaves on the bountiful apple tree turned over, and the wind subtly halted blowing.  Besides just getting away, or making a project, I love to go into my clubhouse when it rains.  Laying down on a carpet remnant from the eighties from my aunt’s attic, looking up gazing at the knotty, unpolished wood, and hearing the the rain dare to start falling.  Pitter — patter … pitter — patter …  Then, it starts to get more confident.  PITTTER – patter – PITTER – patter – PITTER – PATTER – PITTERPATTER… I could lay there for hours, which I have, but the finale is something you have to wait for.  When the rain stops, I prepare myself for a new sensation.  I unlatch the door and look out into the world again.  Everything looks better after it’s rained.   It’s like the water puts a fresh coat of paint on the world.  But what the best part is, the smell.  I wish I could bottle it up, but I wouldn’t sell, I would keep it all for myself.  It smells like new beginnings, and everyday is, the rain just shows it in a new perspective.

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