With a string of uncolored holiday lights I made a celestial body circled around a teddy bear on my night table, in the darkness the play by play announcer at low volume keeping calm. This is the room with the bookshelves reaching up to the cathedral ceiling (sounds magnificent but it’s very plain) where I spend most of my time, adjacent to the kitchen, where I sleep and write and let my thoughts sift through the walls. One large window to let the eastern light in. Aroma of coffee beans roasting and percolating. The same room where I often read or have company and do readings, the room where I have cried over losses and despaired over broken ends, the room with the white walls and the Van Gogh print in which I often see things that aren’t there, the same room where I try and play guitar. I got a moment to myself with the lights so bright and warming, little stars I borrowed from the sky, kittens asleep on the blanket on the bed. Thank you sky, thank you home, thank you pretty peaceful life in a chaotic world.
I looked around the room and saw the goodness in the space. I will be writing many books in this room, I told myself, so far I have written one. The room feels magical to me. Spacious. Full of books. Three doorways: one to the kitchen, one to the closet, one to the city streets. Oh! And door number 4. The one which opens up to new worlds.