I've been wanting a desk of my own for a long time. Like since the day my daughter moved into the second bedroom in our house, making my desk there dysfunctional. (Which happened about two months after we finished building the room.) Yes, I have a little tiny room of my own planned in the new addition, but that addition is still a shell and I don't yet dare dream (or ask) about when it might actually be warm enough to write in.
So I did some rearranging this weekend and made myself a desk in the tiny corner of our bedroom.
I once spoke to an astrologist who said, with confidence, yes, Robin, you can move home to Vermont, but don't try living in a tiny cabin in the woods with Ty. You need space. You need space of your own. Otherwise, well, it won't be good.
Which is how it's been for the last six years, perennially living in tiny rooms without a space of my own and feeling that, much of the time, well, that hasn't been ideal.
This desk is far from a room of my own. It shares a bedroom with three of us. But it is a surface of my own. I've strictly forbidden others from laying books, socks, or bills on it. And what is this lovely surface? A maple table my dad built for my parents' first cabin when he was about eighteen. That mirror? Salvaged from my dear, departed neighbor Eileen Pinkerton's house. Those stunning cups? Made and fired in the wood-kiln up the road by my friend Rob Cartelli. The books? Inspiration. And those photos? All of my people in various stages of "when we were young."
May you all find a surface of your own, too.