Even the Armpit Can Be Beautiful.

I really love my house. I don’t own it. I rent it. But, I love it just the same. It was built in 1926. It is charming. Arched doorways, and built in shelves, and it’s even called a “bungalow”. Sounds fancy, right? I have a stained glass window on my front door. It’s just plain cute. You can see here how it looked before we had fully moved in strewn our crap all over the house. Sure, it could use some repairs here and there (actually everywhere), but I really do love it.

Yet, like all good things, it has an armpit. Have you ever heard the saying, “This city is the armpit of Texas” or whatever?

The armpit of my house is my basement. It’s just not cozy. It doesn’t scream, “Come relax here”. It is the hiding place for stuff that doesn’t have a home. It houses many of the toys that are overflowing from the kids rooms. We hang out in here too much, considering it’s the armpit and all. It has bad track lighting. There are usually crumbs on the floor because I don’t want to haul the vacuum downstairs that often. The kids like to watch movies and play the xbox down there and that usually involves eating snacks. Which involves spreading crumbs into every nook and cranny of the couch. They have a playroom, but it’s always a disaster. It is far from organized. The armpit is where the old couch we inherited from my in-laws sits, the mis-matched furniture, and the giant tube television that took 4 men to move down to said armpit resides. It’s just not that inviting. And like most armpits, it can be smelly at times. It’s where the cat lives too. Don’t you want to come over right now and stay there?!! It has a guest room.

I’m probably making it sound way worse than it actually is. Here’s one pic that gives you some sort of idea.

But it has one redeeming quality. It’s where my computer sits. It’s where I write. It’s where beautiful thoughts can happen.

I knew I loved writing in high school when papers were the easiest assignments for me. I could whip those suckers out like nothing and I almost always got an A. And, when I started blogging in 2007, it was a fun past time. But, in the past 3 years, my love of writing has grown into something I never could have imagined. I started dreaming about becoming a real writer.

So, I switched my family blog to something a little more public a few months ago and joined wordpress with no real intention except to write about whatever I wanted in the hopes that someone might read it. It’s been a fun journey, and it’s one I hope to keep doing for as long as possible. Yet, there have been misunderstandings, and struggles that have come with my blog being made public. I’ve worked through some of those, and my resolve to keep writing has continued even when I wanted to give up. I questioned whether or not putting myself out there in this way was worth it. Deep inside me, I couldn’t stop. Even though I wanted to because I felt like no one “got it”, except my wonderful followers that were fellow bloggers and a select few friends and family.

This morning, I ran across this quote:

I have been criticized and misunderstood. But I could not stop. I even wrote a post saying I was going to take a week off and couldn’t do it. There is something that has been born inside me that I can’t make go away. I feel compelled, and that’s the best I can describe it. And, writing has done so much for me. It has made me look at seemingly small encounters in my life with both my children and others in a more profound, meaningful way. Sure, I can get snarky. I can definitely be sarcastic. I can complain. But, the best part about writing? I can be my whole self. No matter what I’m feeling that day.

And, lo and behold, this morning, I was freshly pressed for a post I wrote yesterday. I never thought that would happen. And, I practically screamed when I read the email last night and my husband was proud because he supports me even when he doesn’t fully understand it. When I sat down in my little armpit in my house during nap time yesterday afternoon, I honestly didn’t know what I was going to write, but then I remembered the woman in the grocery store, and what that encounter made me think and feel, and it just flowed out of me in minutes. For some reason that I can’t see now, I was meant to write. Even if it’s just on this little ole’ mommy blog of mine.

So, I love my armpit of a basement. Because out of it, comes some of the most beautiful things.