My Real Boudoir, the upstairs "city" room, is
still in a state of transition. While the rectilinear furniture from my former
life as wife and mother waits to be replaced by Louis XV, the bed--and
the colors--are all new. Here the rich corals of the parlor below are softened
to blush pink; the brocades, to antique lace. As the name implies (since men
apparently do not pout), it is a woman's room now.
As soon as I had typed the theme for this room--dreamtime, romance, and the closet--I thought immediately of C.S. Lewis's The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. Romance, the illusion that has bewitched us since the Dawn of Time (the waking world), is surpassed only by Truth, our liberator from Before the Dawn of Time (the dream world)--and the only path to either is through the closet (the inner Self).
I was about to begin expounding on the lifelong connection I have experienced between the erotic and the sacred when I came across a column by a local writer expressing much the same thoughts. (To be continued.)
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