Wednesday, May 6, 2015

room, book-child

A beautiful, early May morning, sunshine already touching the budding branches of the peach tree, the seedlings in the cold frame (spinach, arugula, cilantro, carrots, kale) rising higher. Soon I'll put on my sunhat and go out into the day with Owen Cricket, but right now I'm at my desk. My desk! For those of you who have followed woodbird at all, you know this spot has been a long time coming. We began building this addition when I was pregnant with O-Cricket, who will be three at the end of the month. We poured the foundation the week before he was born. We have picked away at it (with help) in the pockets of time when we had time and/or money. And now: here it is. A room of my own. A desk of my own. A place where I go in the mornings, when I can, with a cup of tea.  I haven't built shelves yet: the books line up in piles around the room, comforting me with their presence. Oh, what effort goes into these things! What a miracle that the good ones actually get published, and into our hands. My own book will be sent off to publishers next week, in search of a home, in search of love, and so I'm comforted by such reminders. Sending your book-child off is a bit like sending your real-child off, to Florida, to the ocean where she will look for seashells and dally in the sand. Except the real-child comes home—sun-kissed, smelling of salt, and throws her arms around you. But the book-child? The book-child could go drifting out there for months, years, and never write home. Oh, book-child! The hours that are inside you. The hopes and the love that I have placed there. But enough of this...the morning is so lovely. I have an essay to write. I have a garden to water. If you're looking for books to read, I recommend these spring beauties. May your days be bright, dear ones.