I recently moved house. It was a traumatic experience; made worse by the fact that I get quite attached to the places I live in. I’ve had the same problem before; I’m always reluctant to let go of the last house, even if the next one promises to be beneficial. Thankfully, I have not had to move too often.
My latest move, while painful, was eased by the fact that I love my new house. It is a beautiful old cottage with lacework in the glass windows and extravagant door surrounds. There is a backyard too. And a garden that I am watching, eagerly awaiting spring so I can find out what all the plants are.
But in particular, I love my new house because, I now have a studio. I have a whole room to fill with all things creative. The fiction books have been moved from the lounge room into the studio, and almost fill one wall with stories written by others. My writing notes and reading chair are also on this side of the room. On the right side, are shelves filled with fabric, paint, my camera and everything for the visual arts. Even the long work table is split; with the laptop at one end and the sewing machine at the other.
I’ll soon hang my pictures and paintings on the visual side of the room, and three meters of pin boards on the writing side. While some rooms may still be filled with untouched boxes, the studio will soon be complete. It will be an enchanted forest of creativity. Filled with paper and words. It will be sealed off each night to be protected from the perils of reality. But I can still peek in through the glass French doors and wonder at the stories it holds.
So, if anyone loses me, I will be here, in my studio. I’ll be happy to be surrounded by words.