“To have a sacred place is an absolute necessity for anybody today. You must have a room or a certain hour of the day or so, where you do not know who your friends are, you don’t know what you owe anybody or what they owe you. This is a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be …” (Joseph Campbell)
I hunger for space. My space. And by space, I don’t mean a cupboard, or a big empty basement room. The space I crave speaks to me. As I am. No questions. No conditions. No criticism. Welcomes and accepts me. Lets me immerse myself in other worlds. Worlds of words. Worlds of ideas. Worlds of stories.
Three years ago, I decided to have that space. I cast aside my acceptance of a pipe dream. I was tired of slinking down to the cold dark basement. Twisting and turning chairs and lamps to find optimal lighting. Packaging myself in sweaters, blankets, and wool socks.
My work station is located in the den/guest room of our 1950 era two bedroom house. It has a desk with computer, monitor, office chair, printer, and stand along the east wall, with a book shelf in the NE corner. On the north wall is a 4.5’ x 3.75’ blinded window, and the west wall is occupied by the doorway to the room, and a loveseat that pulls out into a bed. The south wall houses a closet and a bookshelf.
I painted the walls cheerful lemon lime, and adorned them with a favourite painting and family photos. Because the house was built in 1950, the closets are small and I am forced to share the space with my husband who stores his clothes in this room. He keeps his belongings confined to a tight corner and the joint use of the room does not pose a problem to my productivity. The pullout bed is our secondary guest sleeping quarters, so even as a guest room, the inconvenience is negligible.
I am fortunate to have this oasis.
My place of “… creative incubation.”