Making friends with one's room

I'm finding that I need time at home. It's not enough to go to a coffee shop and get schoolwork done; it's not even the same simply being on campus. I need to be in my room.

There's something charming about making friends with one's room. Little things, like making the bed and washing the coffee pot, are so good for one's soul: to walk from the desk to the window, to tidy away papers, to fold clothes, to center and un-harry and de-stress. It may only be a dorm room, but it is my home. A maid could, theoretically, do the same jobs, but then it's not my work that has gone into it. It is hers.

I don't know how high-powered people survive, waking up in the morning, rushing off to work, staying late, maybe going to a church function or a party in the evening, and coming back to collapse into bed, to repeat the process. When things get too disastrous, they take a morning and power-clean. Feminists laud this process, call it empowerment or whatever, but it steals the sense of home. No wonder people have no loyalty to their town and state: they never make friends with their own house.