I write to reconcile the life I think I am living, the life I hope to live, and the life I am actually living. Becoming a parent has put new pressure on this reconciliation. I feel as though my children demand a clarity of intention, an authenticity of purpose, a generosity of emotion and an urgency of action that do not exist in the real me. But all that can exist here.
In the real world, I do not have a room of my own. Even if I did, I have not yet learned to shut the door and ignore the pounding from the other side. In the real world, I write with my back to the sofa, the front door, the central freeway of my home, balancing on a ball and attempting to block out distractions with earbuds blasting. As soon as I sit down to write, the five-year old bounces onto the back of the ball, and the 23-month old reaches for the post-its, the mail, the space bar, whatever her fingertips can find over the edge of the desk.
Here, I can sink into the gift of reverie, let the grains of my days run through my fingers with soothing softness, find the glittering quartz or shiny pebble and set it onto the windowsill to admire the way it gleams in the sun.
So far, nobody knows about this place but me. It exists only as an invitation to myself.
And I accept.
Photo obtained from Google images. Please notify me of any copyright infringement.