In a turbulent household filled with people and animals, it is sometimes hard to find the eye of the storm, the quiet in the madness but fortunately I have been able to create a space with beloved artifacts and most importantly the writing desk, which belonged to my mother. I am intrigued by the drawers (11!) and the cubbies (4) and the objects within the drawers all ready for use and organized in a way that makes sense to me: lots of paper clips, sticky note pads, desk and writing utensils. The desk blotter is old and worn, but I’ll keep it anyways, for luck and for the feeling it gives me of having done this for a long time. Writing.
The corner is comfortable and the view is lovely with all the comforts I need: a desk lamp, a radio, a tray to set down my glass of water or tea, in anticipation of winter and colder times. The phone is handy, as are the files allowing business can be taken care of; bills organized and unwanted items safely shredded. My needed reference books are standing at attention on the credenza across from the desk: the writing books, creative inspiration from those who know better and others just because I like them near. This is my sacred space, my escape, my muse of sorts or a least a home for me, within my home, a home for my thoughts, my hopes, my insights and my observations.