Posted on May 2, 2016 in Blog |
First seating at my new writing space at the cabin and it feels perfect.
This space that is just mine occupies a quarter of the house. Jeff is ok with that. He knows how much this space settles me. It sets me right.
I purposely created this room to be a space of happiness, contentment, and ease. I hung photos, counted cross-stitch pieces, pictures, and art that make me smile – that bring me joy.
The room itself has a queen size bed for guests and a comfortable chair and ottoman when I want to read or work from my laptop.
And then I have my writing spot, my writing space.
First, let me tell what it is not. It is not a space to pay bills, to file papers, or do busy work. I purposely keep no drawers, no storage beneath. I do not want any energy to fill this space that will not help me create. I also purposely kept this space from connecting to the internet, again to decrease my distractions.
By design, it is a small light-colored wooden table, to keep me focused on the Mac screen before me and not all the things around me. I have a propensity for collecting meaningful things (aka clutter). This space is a strong effort to reduce the clutter and keep my focus clear.
Above my monitor hangs the first art I purchased in 1988 with Mom, a fiber piece entitled Rope Trick.
On my desk, I have a salt lamp offering healing energy, a tissue box for the tears that inevitably come when I write, and my hat from Turks and Caicos to remind me of the #vacationofalifetime.
Carol and I found our hats in a small touristy store, the first and only one we visited. I had been looking for a comfortable hat for years. I am picky about my hats and, as such, I do not wear them often. The only two places I have found the other perfect hats were in Naples, Florida and the gift shop at White Sands, New Mexico. I find it amusing that I have only found my perfect hats in the places where I have experienced great spiritual awakenings. But we both found what we wanted. I bought two (turquoise and pink) just because I was giddy from finding the perfect hat, and we were in and out in under five minutes.
I have three more items on this small table:
- a turquoise egg sitting atop a tripod of brass fish that Jim had. I have no idea of the emotional significance of it for him but it’s turquoise, it’s beautiful and it reminds me of him.
- An inexpensive heart shaped brass box with a deep burgundy glazed onto it and small pieces of glass. A golden vine sits atop the burgundy. Inside is painted like a mother of pearl opalescent and then a cream swirl topping it. It was Mom’s.
- Last, I have a clay ashtray from Juarez, Mexico. Mom and Dad didn’t use it as such. They bought it for the colors. The top of the dish is lacquered with brilliant reds and golds and sapphire blues. It reminds me of Dad. It sat beside “his” chair in the living room for decades.
To the left of my table are silk daffodils. It’s a little joke I have with a friend who knows it is hard for me to wait for Spring sometimes, so she brings Spring to me by placing silk flowers in my yard. I know it sounds silly to most, but to me, it is a soul saver. The silk flowers tell me I am loved and to just hold on for the rebirth, the renewal, the restoration of life.
And then I have my window with a view. Our front porch is ten feet deep. We purposely made it so numerous individuals could be out there without the necessity of talking to one another. Guess which introvert demanded these dimensions?
We have options on the front porch: the sole chairs and ottomans for reading, writing, meditating, and of course napping. We have the glass table for lunch and often dinner if the wind is not too strong. We have the white wicker sofa and chair with cushions offering conversations. We have another metal table and two chairs for projects, whether artistic or practical.
Beyond our porch stand two black walnut trees, separate but within 30 feet of one another. Hummingbirds zoom in and out of the branches, taking turns at numerous feeders we have placed nearby. We see goldfinches, swallows, cardinals, red winged blackbirds, red tail hawks, and even a bald eagle. Each fall, we watch the southern migration of thousands of butterflies dotting the bushes and tall grass with every color of the rainbow. It is a silent miracle to behold, to be present as they rest, sun themselves, and move along towards their winter destination.
Bluebird boxes house the babies. With a spotting scope I have a “bird’s eye view” of the parents entering the box, feeding their young, and then swooshing out to capture more worms and bugs and such.
Beyond the walnut trees, I see the other side of the valley, carpeted with trees – Dogwoods, Pines, Maples, and Redbuds – dotted with tiny homes, and a single winding road, barely wide enough for two cars to pass. Eventually, the sun will set and spin the sky into brilliant pinks and purples and blues.
Until it sets, the afternoon sun shines in, warming the carpet, creating the dogs’ afternoon napping spot. Their heads pop up each time I move. They are ready to follow me wherever I go, kitchen or bathroom or porch the most often.
For now, the desktop picture on my monitor is from my wedding day. I am kissing Dad on the cheek. I remember that moment clearly, both of us relieved that THIS wedding day was a happy day for both of us.
“Jeff will be your rock,” Dad said when I told him Jeff had asked me to marry him. I had no idea how correct Dad would be. Twenty-five years later and he is more my rock, my foundation for life than I ever could have imagined.
Dad walked me down the aisle for both marriages, but for this second and final walk, he smiled big, took his time, stepped tiny steps, acknowledged both sides of the aisle, and beamed with pride, knowing this time I had made the right choice and would be happy.
Twenty-five years later, we have a weekend cabin, a second home, our respite from the politics, traffic and urgency of the DMV area.
After a year of construction and final touches, I now have my writing space.
What a glorious place to be.