The Desk of Possibilities
Last week we moved into a new rental home. It’s not a dream home, but it’s certainly an answer to prayer; a new space to live after two years crammed into a tiny (though quaint) apartment. For two years my wide Ikea desk was situated in the bedroom, squished into a corner butted up against the wall and bed. It was a good desk, but a difficult space. And maybe this sounds silly, but this tight-fitting space greatly hampered my flow of creativity.
This morning, I walked into my new office; honestly, the space is luxurious. I have two very large windows, one looking out onto the lush, green backyard, with deep sills for potted plants. I situated my Ikea desk in front of the back window, so I can look out at my pup, Lucy, sunning herself on the patio, the tulips blooming, the trees finally budding after a long, cold winter.
I sat down today with a fresh cup of pour-over coffee, a stack of books, and took in my desk of possibilities. Writers have written in the most imaginative, even impossible spaces. A desk and a sunny corner are not required, but there’s something about having the space to spread out. There’s something glorious about light streaming in, corners that aren’t overflowing with too much furniture in too small a space.
Maybe it’s part of being a creatively-minded person. Place has value, aesthetics can inspire or inhibit. 2020 was the year of uninspired living, practically void of creativity (for me). I spent far more time making homemade pasta and baking bread than anything else (noble skills, and my husband and I were well-fed, but I neglected my creative calling). Annie Dillard wrote in The Writing Life, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.” This past year was one of poorly spent days, a crowded desk, too many carbs, heightened anxiety and loneliness. If my life was the culmination of 2020 alone, it would be a sad one indeed. Thankfully my life is more than one tough year. I emerged bruised and weary, but with newfound purpose. If I want to live a writing life, I have to be (verb) practicing daily writing, daily creating.
I’m reminded, also, of the Mumford and Sons lyric: “where you invest your love, you invest your life.” The question I’ve been mulling over is: what am I investing my love into? Is it mindless consumption of pasta and streaming services, and dirty, crowded corners? Or am I investing my love into the depth and breadth of creative practice?
Purposeful, contemplative time spent at my now sun-spotted desk of possibilities; this piece of furniture, in a rented house, overlooking a glorious spring morning. And I’m inspired to move forward spending my days, investing my love into the work.