Monday, January 23rd, 2017


When I began to travel for business, especially internationally, I heard most people complain about the barren hotel rooms with too many pillows and germs. What can I say? I loved and love a hotel room of my own. For an extroverted woman executive with a large family and an old (yes lots of character) home, a fresh hotel room was heaven.

First of all it was neat and I didn’t have to create the neatness. What? Neat!  And so was I.  “Stuff” was finite based on my suitcase. Minimal clutter. I could do neat. I could maintain this little pocket of neatness.

Not every woman (although recommended by Virginia Wolf) has a room of her own. Hell, sometimes a closet on one own gets invaded. No need to share or accommodate anyone but me.

Occasionally there was luxury and great service. Many times not so much. I learned to 
pack a candle which did the trick for me to create a spot of warmth and beauty. Regardless, the room was wonderfully anonymous. Packed up parts of me could emerge. I could literally hear myself think.

A new hotel room (with some time to spend in it) calmed my hectic habit.
It allowed me to listen to me. I relaxed deeply (didn’t own fixing a damn thing)
and cleared gunk out of my soul and system. I rested. I clarified thoughts and feelings and priorities. No meditation needed. Being in the room that wasn’t mine was its own meditation.
I left the room better aligned, me with me. 

Why am I talking about hotel rooms? Because I’m not ready to talk about
The Women’s March. Of course I walked. I am now at the sage stage of feminism.
I find myself slightly stunned at the hub-bub we live in now. All of us. 
And so I am quiet until I am ready to speak. 

Where is that darn room key anyway?


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