Call to adventure

Hello, this is Priya Iyer. Welcome to Ten Thousand Journeys, where I explore the themes and stages of archetypal journeys through personal essays. If you’re reading this in an email, I hope you’ll also visit the website to dip into the archives and take part in the community conversation.

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Dear Reader, there is this idea that journeys start with a loud and clear call to adventure. But, just as often, there is a quiet whisper or some longing that makes itself felt in a daydream, or a book or place you are drawn to. There are many new readers here and I thought I would share an experience I’ve written about before (I shared it last summer), of the arrival of a new journey in the quietest of ways. I hope you enjoy (re)reading it.

How to make room for a new journey

I thought I was going to write about some other things, but I find I am here to write about a room.

This is a story from a little over twenty years ago. My little family- my husband and I, and our toddler son- had just moved into a second floor condo. I remember it was July, and hot, though not as hot as this year has been. The wisteria that climbed the arches leading to the stairs, and that we’d oohed and aahed over when we were house hunting in May, had finished blooming. Now it was the blue-violet Lily of the Nile flowers’ turn to add subtle color to the pale blue buildings. Anyway, it was the first home we owned and we saw beauty everywhere we turned.

When you entered our condo through the back door, there was a small rectangular room just inside and to the left. I’m calling it a room, but it was probably intended as a large storage closet because it was the right size to store, in a line against the long wall, six vacuum cleaners, a mop, and a broom or two. There was enough space that you could walk in and wheel one of the six vacuums out without having to move anything else out of the way. Since we only had one vacuum cleaner, we decided to use the extra space to store suitcases, and other odds and ends. We closed the door on the clutter, and were well-satisfied.

However, over the next few months, the room started to exert a strange pull over me. Every time I passed by, it called out. Hey. Psst. 👋. When I turned around and stared at the closed door in confusion, it would lapse into silence. This went on for a few weeks until one day, I threw open the door and looked into the room. The suitcases and a few cardboard boxes were still there. What if I used the room? a tentative voice asked, to which another, rather smug, voice replied, To do what? It’s not like you are the creative type or have any hobbies.

At that time, I worked in a biotech research lab while getting my first Master’s degree. I had homework in the evenings, but that’s not what I wanted the room for. I didn’t know what I would do there, but I thought it might be nice. A room for me. Though the annoying voice was right. Except for reading, I didn’t have any hobbies. I was in my late twenties then. I wrote poetry when I was younger, but I hadn’t written anything for more than a decade. Apart from some scrapbooking as a teenager, I’d never wanted to make things with my hands. Maybe it was true after all. I didn’t have a creative bone in my body. But even though I had no need for a dedicated room, suddenly I felt compelled to claim this tiny space.

I mentioned it to my husband and he offered to rehouse the suitcases. He also pointed out we had a small guest room and since it was bigger, I might want to use that one. We had frequent overnight guests and I wanted something that I didn’t have to give up, even temporarily, so the guest room was out. And it was the small size of the closet-room, and the fact there weren’t any windows, that made it appealing.

Dear Reader, it was like the tiniest slice of the world that I could wrap around myself, a kind of a blanket of a room, and no one could look in.

We moved a desk and chair into the room, and I went in and sat there. It felt silly, especially when I knew the rest of the condo was empty. I could’ve sat anywhere in the condo, but I wanted to be here in this kernel of a room. Sometimes, my toddler would knock on the open door and we made a fun game of him visiting me. Other times, I would spend an entire afternoon there, door gently closed, daydreaming, while the other two took a nap or went to the park. I had no idea what I was doing, but for the first time in many years, something in me felt soothed. I went in, came out, and felt happier. There was this old Mastercard commercial called Priceless- “Some things money can’t buy. For everything else, there’s Mastercard.” The feeling I got when I went into this closet-room was priceless. Later, I started taking my tea, and, since this was before smartphones, a book or a magazine into the room. Then I took scissors and started cutting pictures. Slowly, it became my art room. Over the years, I’ve methodically claimed corners, closets, and rooms (with or without windows). For a period, there was even a small cottage-like space behind the house we lived in and, when my younger son was little, it was our hideout to sit and color together.

I think much of life is about two things- being at home and going into the world, and one nourishes you to do the other.

I haven’t become a great artist (not even a beginner artist) or an expert scrapbooker. But, somehow, sitting in the tiny room with its empty walls and clean desk, helped create an opening for me to eventually (e-v-e-n-t-u-a-l-l-y) return to writing.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.”
― T. S. Eliot

Dear Reader, we forget that so much of going on any kind of journey is about reclaiming what we’ve lost connection to.

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Best,

Priya

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