Emily Parnell: I don’t want a white-wall kind of life, but it’ll do for the summer season

Walking out of the office where I work several days a week, I watched a man painting a large expanse of the stairwell a clean, warm white. The fresh paint smell greeted my nose with the promise of a blemish-free wall. He would leave no marks or grime from previous bumps and encounters, eliminating all evidence of fingerprints and spills. Rolled out before me was a clean slate — the outlook clear.

Unlike an actual slate, which simply bides its time until it the day it serves as the background to chalk art and proclamations, the goal of the stairway wall is to remain white. It’s uncluttered, unadorned, tasked with the sole function of looking over the utilitarian concrete stairwells. No pictures will be hung. Stair-climbers will stride past it daily without really seeing it.

Every time I catch a whiff of fresh paint, my mind predictably conjures visions of my own shabby walls. They are not white, and they contain the scars of nine years of living with children, pets and sometimes-klutzy adults. They are a rotating canvas for art created by our family, with a child occasionally taping up papers from school or posters or applying stickers. By our front door is some graffiti from my kids’ younger years. In the family room is a wall of scratches from our cat, who prefers smooth surfaces to sharpen her claws. From the breakfast bar drips a trickle of purple that will not wash off — remnants from a party that featured sangria.

For a moment, I imagine my walls white. Simple. Empty. It feels spacious.

“I should paint,” I think. I could buy paint today and start this weekend.

I don’t really want white walls, though. What I crave is white space in my life, and I suddenly realize that the beginning of summer is the freshest shade of white that my calendar will encounter.

For just a couple of months, I have fewer duties, my presence is boiled down to the utilitarian needs. Feed the kids, do my job, make sure we all have clean underwear. I oversee the basics. There’s less guilt — less pressure. There are no projects due, no homework, no studying for spelling tests. I can take a break from room mom duties. Planning for next year’s events goes into background mode. The canvas is simple. Utilitarian. Basic.

I resist my impulse to start planning, adding tasks. I must be deliberate in my plan to make no plans. Sip your coffee and look out the window. Take a book and the kids to the pool. Call a friend. And for heaven’s sake, don’t buy paint.

My white schedule will soon be boring. I’ll look for a bright pop of activity to hang front and center. Work and duties will spill and splatter. It will be covered with Post-Its of reminders and to-do lists.

The stairwell’s fresh white walls take work. It’s been less than a year since I first saw it painted. Perfect emptiness is not simple — it’s work. You have to paint it white over and over, and the result is empty.

I don’t live a white wall kind of life. But for the beginning of this summer, I’ll enjoy a short, white-wall season. Pristine and simple.

Eventually, I’ll break down and buy a can of paint and start rolling on the color.

This story was originally published June 2, 2015 at 1:16 PM with the headline "Emily Parnell: I don’t want a white-wall kind of life, but it’ll do for the summer season."