I lost my spot, my writing spot. At the kitchen table by the window where all the sun poured in and warmed my back on chilly mornings. I loved that spot. It had its faults, of course. In the middle of everything. Too noisy. Too much activity. Homeschool work always crowding me out. But it was my spot, even though everyone and everything invaded it from time to time, it was mine because I staked the claim.
When we packed up that table, to move it a couple of miles up the road to a house with much more space than our apartment, I felt a twinge of sadness. Would there be a spot in our new place for me, for my writing? A place where the sun poured in and made it easier to type on freezing mornings?
There was a spot in the new house. It wasn’t anything like the other spot. There was no way to make it so the sun that poured in would warm my back. I’d have to abandon the long kitchen table and use a desk that had, for so many years, been nothing more than the spot where all the odd bits and pieces were laid.
And here we are, the writer with no home and the desk with no purpose. We’ve come together, out of convenience maybe. Kismet, perhaps. We need to figure each other out, Find out what the other one likes, familiarize ourselves with the other’s quirks. We need to hope we’re lucky enough to fall in love.
It’s quiet here, almost too quiet. The only time my work ever gets shoved aside is when my mind drifts to faraway places. It’s not warm on my back, but at my feet for only an hour or so. The view is different. No more dirty dishes in the sink, no calendar reminding me of all there is to do. I look at Ganesh, Buddha. My mother in her wedding dress. A solemn and wistful Tom Petty. Rather than the lights of the fish tank, I write by the glow of a lava lamp. I look outside and see lime green leaves budding from bare branches.
It’s quiet here, almost too quiet.
This desk, always so bogged down with papers and pens, bills yet to be paid. Post-it notes. Bent paper clips, letters, dust. Now it’s so empty. My laptop, a cup of coffee, a glass of wine, depending on the hour in which I write. I wonder if it feels relief from the clutter. Does a desk feel better when it’s doing its job?
There’s not enough room for my elbows sometimes. The cat has nowhere to lie. I can’t hear the car horns honking in the distance. The sharp clack clack clack of kids skateboarding on the bridge over the creek is gone, replaced with airplanes overheard and the incessant melodies of chirping birds. And always, the thoughts that run away with my head.
I don’t know how it’s working out for the desk, what it thinks of me, of us. How are we doing, now that we’re together? Does my sitting here give it purpose. Or am I just more clutter, but not the right kind of clutter? Does it ever wish to go back to what it used to be?
I’m no longer forced into a timeframe that is not of my choosing. I don’t have to hurry to edit before they all rise from their beds. Now, I can pick the time and close the door. Now, I have to force myself instead of being forced. The only thing to interrupt me is anything I want. This desk, this room, this sacred space where I staked my claim is unfamiliar, yet it’s mine.
We’ve had some time together, just us. We’ve lingered in near darkness, tried to discover the other next to the window with the sunshine. Had long conversations and found comfort in our space in time. The newness hasn’t worn off, sometimes it’s scary and sometimes it’s sublime.
I think about the old spot, the way it used to be. At times my heart aches to have the chill taken off my back by the sun pouring in. But that’s not where I’m meant to be. I’m here now, in this space, this new space. We’re here now. The writer with no home, the desk with no purpose, we’re here. And I think we may just be lucky enough to fall in love in this sacred space that is mine.