I’ve only lived in my off-campus house for about a year and a half, but my bedroom arrangement is already in its fourth iteration. But it’s not because each rendition is better than the last — I’m simply in the fourth iteration of myself.
***
Every year, toward the end of the summer, my dad’s side of the family hosts a family reunion in Northern Michigan. My dad, brother and I always make the trek up there, but my mom always chooses to stay behind. She’s never been the biggest fan of traveling, and the oftentimes large, uncontrolled, figure-it-out-as-we-go reunions are more stressful than fun for her.
Once, when I was still in elementary school, I returned from this trip to find that the old, ratty pillows that used to lay on our couch had been replaced by newer, more elegant ones. I was ecstatic. I ran over to test them out and make sure they worked properly — they were smooth, gray and fluffy enough to be comfortable, yet firm enough to support my head’s weight. They passed my inspection. Their sleek modernism completely changed the look of the room. The former pillows and their deep red dullness had absorbed all the surrounding light, but now, the new pillows played their part in the symphony, reflecting the light back into the room. They were perfect.
I quickly returned to my semi-carsick travel companions to encourage them to come inside and admire the exciting change, but they were more amused by my overreaction than they were thrilled by our new pillows. I wasn’t quite sure why they didn’t share my elation, but I wasn’t going to let my parade get rained on. In my eyes, a new chapter had begun in the Trese household! With no more corduroy-textured pillows, our living room had entered a new era.
From there, an unexpected tradition began. After witnessing my joyous celebration of the simple change of living room pillows, my mom decided that she would change one thing about our house whenever we left for this reunion trip. When I would return, I would scamper around the house until I found whatever it was that had changed. No matter how many times she bought a new blanket or switched the fabric on our dining room chairs, my excitement for a new beginning never faltered.
The one thing that rarely changed, however, was my childhood bedroom: The dresser and bookshelf were always on my left, my bed and closet were to my right, and a brown loveseat resided in the back corner. My dad used to read me and my brother bedtime stories in that loveseat when we were little. I would lie in my bed while my brother would sit snugly next to my dad on the sofa as he softly read to us. In middle school, I would curl up into a ball and cry into the back cushion of that loveseat so that my brother wouldn’t hear me. It’s been years since anyone sat in the loveseat. Now, it only sits in the back left corner of my room to remind me of who I was when I needed it. Sometimes, I wish the loveseat wasn’t there anymore.
I had changed, but my room was stuck in the past — floating around in some reality where I’m still 10 years old. And it sucked me in, whether I like it or not.
Our space and our environment bear power over us. My mom would always harp the mantra of “dirty room, dirty mind.” The state of our immediate environment not only has an impact on our emotions, but perhaps on our perception of reality as a whole. I have always, ever since I was young, found a fresh start through changes in my physical space.
With the stagnation of the environment that surrounds me comes the stagnation of my mindset. This idea manifests itself in a multitude of ways. I always begin my writing process in my room — at my desk with my fish, Louis, on it to the left of my door. As soon as my ideas start to come to a halt, I pack up my bags and move to my next location. It doesn’t matter where; the space just needs to be different. Each time I switch locations, I have a fresh start. My new surroundings breathe new life into my ideas, allowing me to pass through the mental block. Perhaps the loud conversation from the table to my left in the basement of the Michigan Union inspires new sentences, or the motivational messages on the air vent in the study carrels on the fifth floor of the Hatcher Graduate Library stacks give me the mental fortitude to keep writing. Or maybe, it’s just that a simple perceptual change signals a new beginning.
As a college student in my early 20s, I’m at a place in my development where I am changing more rapidly than ever. I don’t mean physically — that disaster happened in middle school — but rather in more subtle, meaningful ways. Living on my own forces rapid emotional changes: Increased independence, responsibility and discipline all lead to a rapidly changing outlook on life. Not to mention that living with peers in such a volatile environment forces rapid development in social skills. If there is one universal guarantee in college, it’s personal growth and internal change.
But how am I supposed to change when everything in my space stays the same? I can’t. Because my space won’t change just because I change. So, when I am in desperate need of a new beginning, I change my surroundings.
***
I was sick for much of last winter semester — not like a cold or a virus, but mentally. I had all but moved out of my house in Ann Arbor and was living with my parents most of the time. On days when I could leave my room, I would commute to class. And when I felt I was finally turning a corner in my recovery, I would try to move back into my home in Ann Arbor only to be disappointed once again by my feigned improvement. I began to hate my college bedroom. The bed is on the right as I walk in, the desk facing the window overlooking the gravel parking lot, my dresser to the left. It all reminded me of what I used to have and who I was before.
When I finally regained enough strength, I tore my room to shreds — I needed a fresh start. I turned my bed 90 degrees, I shoved my desk to the opposite corner, I swapped my hanging plants from one hook to the other. Nothing could stay the same.
At the end of my furious rearrangement, I stood back to admire my work. Not much had changed. I still had the same bed, the same desk, the same plants and the same window that overlooked the gravel parking lot. But for me, the small changes were everything. My room no longer reminded me of the dark times I was in. Rather, it inspired hope in myself that a new leaf had been turned, that a new era of my life had just begun.
Of course, this new arrangement of furniture didn’t last for long, as within a few months, I had found that I was no longer in the same headspace as I was when I first changed my room. If I had changed, why should my room stay the same? It was time to move on and start anew.
Sometimes my roommates ask me why I change my room so often, and I never have a solid answer for them. I just repeat the same line:
“A space won’t change just because you do.”
Statement Columnist Eli Trese can be reached at elitrese@umich.edu.