My dorm has an attic. It’s not much of an attic, really. It doesn’t have gables or cobwebs or sunlight filtered through dust motes. There’s plenty of dust, but it’s hardly the attic out of story books. It’s just a room on the very top floor on the way to the roof. They used to keep extra desk chairs up there. Now it’s just an empty room with white walls and a cement floor.
It is the perfect place to hide. And to practice speeches.
I spent a lot of time in that room last year. I wrote several plays up there, studied for tests, and wrote outlines. But mostly I went up there to tell stories to the silent walls. I practiced for my storytelling class up there, regaling the air and dusty chairs with Aesop’s fables, tales of Robin Hood, short stories by Montgomery, and Beauty and her Beast. This plain little room became a nest of dreams for me—a safe place to go while I rebuilt some things that had been torn down.
It’s funny how a place so plain and so seemingly insignificant can come to mean so much.
Tonight I went up there to practice another speech. This one wasn’t nearly as fun as storyweaving. I miss being able to tell stories for academic credit. But I don’t miss the memories. They’re always there, warming me. Last year is an excellent memory, and much of it brewed up in that little room where I wrote, prayed, and told stories.
There’s no point to this post. You’ve probably figured this out by now. But may you, dear reader, find ways to make your memories of this time in your life last, for good or ill. It is good to remember what you’ve come from as you keep going forward.