A Room of One's Own

It's just a small corner of the cellar, make shifted in front of the boxes of Christmas decorations. I vacuumed up all the spider eggs, put down a who-cares rug, and set up a who-cares table. I'm ready to paint again.

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My intentions got lost last winter. This year, I hope I will sometimes mosey downstairs on quiet nights and paint wood. Birdhouses where wacky people reside, boxes that can hide secret treasures, and abandoned magazine racks and candle holders whispering stories from the past. In wild bright colors. Some with polka dots.
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Meanwhile, upstairs, down the hall, in the wing, I write.

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And perhaps too, out the door, somewhere yet unknown, I return to my job-work.

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It's a life with patterns not yet established, habits not yet formed. It's all I have. Some days I wake up and know exactly what I will and must do and other days I fall into it all. Would I be better off if my directions were written out for me, handed to me by a fair but strict universe in 1-2-3 steps I would then follow and be done with it?

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No, not me. I have loosely pieced together this life of mine for years now. Perhaps I should be richer, or wiser, or more grounded by now. Perhaps, but I kind of like it this way.

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So when I begin to sit at the little table in the corner past the cellar stairs, I'll let myself know how the wood smells and whether the colors match as I hope. Until then, well, the room is ready.