From inside my study, one wall book-lined, the other holding a large mirror that makes the room appear bigger, I sit on the loveseat, listening to Strauss and the waterfall powered by a tiny electric pump. When I’m home, I turn it on, the sound of water like a heart beat in this house, a tangible reminder of what usually is invisible, at least to waking life—water for me representing the unconscious and all that lives there.
I come to this sanctuary at the center of the house, separated from the master bedroom by French doors, to be alone, as much as one can be alone in a shared space. Images that trigger happy memories or just please me fill the walls and shelves: a canal in Venice, that watery city I love; a blackened white porcelain female figure holding a dove aloft that my sister had given me (it survived my house fire of many years ago); a print of an Emily Carr painting, the night and forest appearing eerie and alive; twisted pieces of driftwood; a small rock from the Acropolis; and a picture of my sister and me taken a few years back outside the remains of our barn on the Langdon farm.
My husband jokingly accuses me of conducting secret rites in the study after he goes to sleep, lighting candles, doing “witchy” things. To him, a Freudian analyst and an English professor, I’m sure that much of what I do with dreams and in Jungian analysis appears esoteric. Strange. Mystifying.
For me this room acts as a conduit to my deeper self. My laptop is in here where I record my dreams, store my journals, and write. I also have a table set up with watercolors and other art materials, ready to collect colors and shapes from the unconscious that choose to surface in this way.
This sanctuary seems essential in order to tolerate the craziness of the external world, most especially in recent times when so much is not what it really is. Trumps locutions about hypothetically being electrocuted. The surfeit of lies all around the world. We need a space, mentally and physically, where we can sort out what’s true and what isn’t.
2 thoughts on “A writer’s sanctuary!”
I say – and it isn’t a joke – that, once we moved to the retirement community in Davis, what saves our marriage is that my office/guest bedroom/twitchy sleeping room (mine)/Sanctuary is the door of this room, which closes and blocks most sound.
Husband has the rest of the apartment – and uses it. He cooks (mostly for himself – and in improving the things we get for ‘dinner’ pickup), has his computer, uses the TV to watch Youtube videos, sleeps in the Master Bedroom, and has the larger bathroom.
I need my space, and for the first time in almost forever, I have my own bathroom* right across the hall, and the washer and dryer in between, behind louvered doors.
It’s as near to perfect as I was able to arrange, overlooks our tiny balcony with my plants, and gives me lots of northern light.
Once I get some of his papers finished and out of here, whatever else I need will be set up. It’s always as tidy as I can make it. It has a working chair for my assistant when she’s here. I have all the artwork I choose, including Mother’s paintings.
And husband has been lovely – he knocks. He is welcome any time, but we give each other space and courtesy, so it works.
Any writing problems I deal with come from MY body and MY fractured mind, and I’m used to both.
Add Freedom to that to keep surfing to an absolute minimum (phone – critical research questions only), and, if it’s up to the environment, I’ve got it. And protect it fiercely.
*Oldest of 5, mother of 3, I’ve never lived alone, but this comes close, without the downsides.
Sounds like a perfect arrangement!