I blog from a tabletop pushed against a wall adorned with a colorful geologic map and some watercolors. I’ve got a small window, prone to cobwebs and collecting dead leaves. My view is ground-level, facing into a wall of ivy. The southern sun streams in, keeping it from feeling like the basement it is.
But the best part is the bunny. While I grumble at him and his kin when it comes to my plants, I delight in his company on the bricks at my window. He’s a bit of a muse, that flash of inspiration that hops past almost too quickly to grasp but reliably enough for genuine pleasure and company.
What else? There’s a dehumidifier. This time of year it’s white noise with a bit of welcome heating; in the summer I vacillate between appreciating its fight against the creeping damp and jerking the plug from the wall when the hot air and noise get to be too much.
Behind me, where I can’t see them, are piles. Piles of books, piles of boxes; piles midway in the culling process. Piles that will have to be dealt with before family arrives for Christmas.
I come down the stairs and into my own world. It’s quiet, although I don’t think it needs to be, and entirely of my own direction. If I want tunes, I can blast ’em with abandon. If I suddenly get the urge to drop to the floor for planks and squats, I can. My husband’s at work two flights up and he’s none the wiser.
The space works in ways I hadn’t really anticipated. While I share it with laundry, abandoned video games, spare dining chairs, family photo albums, spiders and the occasional cricket, it is, nonetheless, a room of my own.
I like to think Ms. Woolf would approve.
* This is a much-delayed reply to a Writing101 prompt that’s been percolating for some time.