I would like to tell you about my little house, the writing studio that was once a shed. It is an indulgent backyard writing studio where, among other things, the small miracle is this: I write.
I recently put a new bookshelf in here, along with a secondhand loveseat, and now it feels like this room is almost complete, save for fully decorating it, save for hanging more pictures on the wall and weeding through the filing cabinet full of things I no longer need. This space is full of things that I love. Here are some of them:
An almost-complete collection of Maud Hart Lovelace books.
A photograph of my mom, sewing a piece of her wedding dress into mine.
A lamp I bought at a thrift store when I first moved here and realized I needed more light.
A blue chair that is velvet and curvy and just my size.
A vintage wooden candle holder that spells out “Shalom.”
A footprint and handprint from my baby.
A picture a friend drew me of pink trees.
A cup my brother gave me, which now holds pens.
A picture of me holding my best friends’ newborn daughter, who is now 19.
A gorgeous quilt a friend made for my child.
A corkboard full of photographs of people I’ve loved and mementos from places I’ve visited.
A gold mirror I found in a giveaway pile on the side of the road.
This is meant to be my room of one’s own. It is the realization of a long-held dream where my family’s home, cozy and secure, sits on the other side of the backyard. This space, where I can let my imagination soar, is just a stone’s throw away yet is the entrance to something sacred inside of me.
I have tried for so many years, the entirety of my adult life, to define home; to achieve the goal of knowing where I belong and having that as a base from which to explore. This little spot helps me get a little closer to that, and I am grateful. It is an incredible gift, to have this room, an incredible gift I very much intend – hope, wish – to honor. It seems foolish, at my age, to be so much at the beginning. And yet:
Let the words come; let me work hard in finding them.
The Wandering Introvert 