A Shed of My Own

I remember reading Virginia Woolf's "A Room of One's Own" when I was in high school.   I don't remember what drew me to read it.  Perhaps it was the cover - sort of an aqua blue with black line drawing - or it could have been mentioned by my far more worldly friend, Roberta Ikemi.  Or it could have been referred to when I was reading something else.  Or, or, or.

Whatever the reason, reading it reinforced some ideas that were developing for me.  The idea that writing had merit, the idea that men and women were often treated differently because of their sex, and the idea that creative expression was something I could do.

It was exciting to read the book because Woolf questioned the status quo.  That was most appealing to a child of the 60s.

Zoom forward about a half century and I find myself fortunate to have a space that is my own.

It is a way from the responsibilities of the house and home.  It is a sort of writing refuge. 

This space is 6' X 8', acknowledges the four directions, and furnished with small bargains;

or items found around the house.  

That impulse purchase that was made at Ikea 8 years ago that never found a place in the house but was too cool to toss or to go to Goodwill.

In this space I can write; energized by early morning bird songs.  

I can watch aurora play with ceanothus shadow leaves.  

It's a place where time can be taken to find the right words to tell the tale; whatever that tale might be.