When I was talking to Chris this morning, I meant to describe someone as “self-deprecating.” I said instead that that person was “self-defecating.” I suppose that is true — for really, isn’t the human factory standard set at self-defecating? — but still, it was a malaprop with a meaning: If my brain is this addled, then clearly I need to write.

I blame the chair in our bedroom. It is a perfectly fine chair, obtained from an estate sale held a few blocks from our house about 15 years ago. Although it was a long time ago, I was surrounded by bargain-hungry Savannahians with Velcro mitts for hands, and I have been to an embarrassing number of estate sales, I well remember walking into that particular house. It was comfortable and cozy. It had a lot of books. And it looked like the occupant would return at any moment (no doubt wondering why a host of strangers were fondling his possessions).

Being perpetually nosy (or perhaps just southern), I inquired. The owner and his fine German Shepherd had died in a gas explosion at his river house. At the time, I was in my late 30s, which means everything was more or less going my way, and I remember the first nudge of that feeling that I have grown to know all too well: Things can turn on a dime.

So I bought a desktop lectern, which has wandered through four different offices with me, and the chair that sits in my bedroom, which has remained the same. I recovered the chair in a black and white toile, and rather than sitting on it to tie my shoes or put on my tights, I found instead that it has become That Chair. You know, the dirty-little-secret chair in everyone’s bedroom that plays host to the flotsam and jetsam of one’s life that has no other place. It recently held a framed self-portrait of my daughter done in marker; four socks with no mates; a red weld file containing notes that I carried to court in Atlanta 53 weeks ago; a purse that had been switched out; two sweaters that needed repair; a small red rectangular package of screws that affix God only knows what; and the nightly stack of three decorative pillows removed from our bed before going to sleep.

It was not an overflowing mess or anything resembling an enormous mound. But it was enough to get my attention. Chris and I live in comfortable home that nears 3,000 square feet. Our children have largely moved out. As I surveyed the chair, I asked myself this question: Why did I have so much space and so little room?

Thus begun a domestic fruit basket turnover of epic proportions. Shelves have gone up. Toiletries, cleaning supplies, purses, and sweaters have been on a circular march upstairs to new and more hospitable climes. Trash bags have been deployed. Donation piles have arisen from the ashes. (While these things will be donated, I must confess an itch to assemble an enormous pile for a backyard bonfire and to cheer the lapping flames.) No closet is safe.

Now the armoire holds sweaters and linens. The laundry closet now has an additional shelf to hold cleaning supplies. A small pink chest in the bathroom houses toiletries. And at the risk of sounding completely immodest, a stroke of genius led me to convert the old linen closet into a purse closet, complete with fresh paint bright orange racing stripes on the front of the shelves:

Alas, I have miles to go before I sleep. There remains the guest closet, the downstairs coat closet, the attic. I have begun to tackle my sewing room — site of my fabric and yarn holdings — a task that has led to this question in some form or another, over and over: Exactly what possessed me? And this: Have I been trying to corner the elusive yarn and fabric markets?

Actions have consequences, I tell myself. We are all the products of our decisions, I say. Why did I think I could make a dress from a yard of fabric or a sweater from a single skein of yarn?, I wonder.

But I have dug in. I have been confronted with remnants, and I have elected to cobble together what I can. Bags. Placemats. Napkins. Clothing made out of pieces. A sweater that may not exactly match, but certainly uses a lot of bits and pieces.

This is how I have elected to go forward: Take what I have. Use it all (even the good stuff) and enjoy it. Remove my own Velcro mitts of retail. Keep moving forward.

My sister turned 40 the other day. I feel tenderness for her akin to the tenderness I feel for my children — a tenderness that can perhaps be generated only by repeatedly changing the diapers of one who is self-defecating. As she approaches her 40s, I thought about mine, and how they felt like a downward flaming spiral, with white-knuckled hands on the control shaft, until I crash-landed in my 50s. I think often of this Victor Hugo quote: Forty is the old age of youth. Fifty is the youth of old age.

Alas, it is not a youth bounded by college and adulthood and independence. But I still feel that I have been presented with something new, that the future — while no longer seeming unlimited — is mine to make it. As I have been cleaning and sewing and knitting and painting and generally making room, I have thought about the changes of the last few years:

1. I have taught myself to cook and I make our lunches every day. (I had been convinced that I was simply unable to cook, and then I realized that if you can read, you can cook. Note: I can read.)
2. For the month of January, I wore something that I made every day, and I have never felt more like myself. (Did I look ridiculous at times? Possibly. Did it concern me? Not really.)
3. I meditate nightly, and I have a run streak of 540 consecutive days. (Yes, I realize that that makes me sound competitive, which is the antithesis of meditation. Recall, however, the name of this blog.)
4. I no longer drink. (Do I miss it? Sure, especially with really good meals. And when I smell really good bourbon.)
5. I exercise only in ways that make me feel happy, so I walk a whole lot, do Pilates, and lift weights a few nights a week. (If my body has grown softer — well — so have I.)

As I was painting the orange racing stripes on my new purse closet, I felt like I owed myself an apology, although I wasn’t exactly sure what I should apologize for. There seemed to be a lot — bad perms, uncomfortable shoes, the many times I should have kept my mouth shut. I finally settled on this: I have, at times, made it unnecessarily hard on myself. Perfection is a sucker’s game, and I often opted for space without the room. I am remedying the situation in my home. I am working on it in my life. And when I knit every bit of yarn and sew every little piece of cloth that I have gathered, no doubt I will be fabulously arrayed in fabric that I have created.

I hope to have many years, with so much color and with plenty of time to create. Youth may be wasted on the young, but I am no longer young. I know better than to fritter away what I now have. My knees may grumble and make terrible noises, but still I dance. While my children are mortified, I am delighted.

ALC