I’m writing this from my room of one’s own. It was the Christmas gift I asked for from Nick. I wanted a room in the house, completely mine. A room with light, with my chosen fixtures, with my clashing bright colors and unevenness throughout. I want to choose everything about it and in that room I will write, paint, draw, create, think, sleep, cry, be, wither, rejuvenate, ruminate, research. It’s mine. All are welcome in it, but it’s a space dedicated to me. The rest of the rooms in the house have their purposes, but this room. THIS ROOM is created out of need, out of love.

And Nick delivered.

Christmas eve he was working like a madman to switch the master bedroom with another small room which would be our room, and the master bedroom would be my Room. Room. Such a beautiful word.

It was hard work. We bundled Isaiah in a coat, gloves, and hat and asked him to play downstairs while we left the side door open and we walked in and out of the house, carrying furniture we decided to donate into the garage. In the cold December night, we sweated as we lifted and turned heavy pieces of shelves and desks on their sides. I cleaned. Nick moved all of our books to the basement until we decide what to do with the hundreds of books that used to be our library which is now the space for our mattress. I sneezed and dusted, swept and vacuumed. Isaiah proudly held the extra broom and ran around scattering my piles of dirt.

Some Christmas wishes don’t come true without hard work.

So after we attended Christmas eve mass we came home to exchange gifts. Nick sent me on a scavenger hunt throughout the house and, finally, upon my last clue which had me flustered and confused on the third floor, I came upon my gift. The GIFT. The gift that surpassed all other gifts he’s given me (minus a notebook full of love letters from 2001). It was rectangular and spectacularly enormous. I ripped the paper in one long thick strip and glimpsed the front cover. One word: iMac. iScreamed. Loud. Isaiah started bawling, probably thinking I was under attack from the huge box. iCried. And couldn’t stop.

Most people would raise their eyebrows at such a luxurious gift for such non fancy folks such as me and Nick, so let me elaborate on what went on in my mind.

More than anyone else in my life, Nick knows my dreams. As well as a person outside your own mind can understand your desires, Nick knows my dreams. He knows what excites me. And he knows that what makes most people happy doesn’t make me happy. It’s not that I’m hard to know, but there are such few things that I would truly cherish as much as a device that facilitates my creativity like a new speedy computer whose graphics and clarity bring out the beauty of my photography and helps immensely when processing batches of photos. More than that though, it was the first time I felt like someone broke inside my head, didn’t steal anything, and just looked. Like Nick studied all the different ideas I have for writing projects, he analyzed my frustration with not having space or time to devote to quiet. With a stethoscope, microscope, flashlight, and samples, he did investigative work on my heart. And I wasn’t wishing for a Mac. I was wishing for space.

He helped me create that space and then added an unexpected ornament in the center. An ornament that whispered, “I believe in you. Do this.”

That’s what made me cry.

In 1997 I attended a lecture my first year in college. It was on self-defense and how to be safe in college (mandated for all first year students) and the woman who lectured digressed into talking about her partner. I’ll never forget her words that rang in my then 18 year old ears, “If you find someone who believes in you more than you believe in yourself. Marry them.”

I didn’t like the advice. I thought, “I always believe in myself. I don’t need others to believe in me before I believe in myself.”

Now 32 years old, with a 2 year old son, balancing life on a tight rope it seems at times, I strive to wonder what the hell I was thinking. Who in the world thinks s/he is exempt from self-doubt? Who DOESN’T need a someone in their life who looks you in the eye and believes in everything inside of you? Who, except a naive fool, thinks they can get through life holding onto their dreams and make them happen alone?

When we allow ourselves to speak our dreams, we will find a listener. Perhaps it won’t be a crowd. Maybe you don’t even get two. But you will find one. One person is all it takes to be heard and when that one person listens closely, like you have the only voice in the world, it can be a magical experience all on its own. All year we come down on ourselves with failures and disappointments, and the world seems all to eager to remind you that dreams are only for the few and wealthy.

Dreams belong to us all and when folded with love, a gesture, a Gift, can make us feel like dreams are possible; like anything is possible.

It wasn’t the screen or wireless gadgets that came in that huge box. It was imagining Nick lying next to me, listening to my endless lists of almosts, shoulds, and maybes and him thinking, “Let’s do this.”

And now, I sit here, in a newly cleaned and organized Room of my own. In a space that looks, smells, feels like it came straight out of my soul, I cannot help but sit here on January 1, 2012 and believe, not just in dreams, but in myself.

Merry, Happy, Ecstatic New Year, my love. Thank you.