The Attic


I am five days (!) into our Maine vacation and I am resisting.  Today will be our second full day at the summer cottage and I am resisting.  I am resisting the uninsulated nature of a place built for three-season use with planks for dividing walls and floors, but no privacy of sound.  It is a place perfect for closeness, for coming together, not isolation.  The writer, the creator needs space to listen – not to anyone else’s thoughts, music, angst.  I have my own squirminess there.  The writer, the artist craves a set apart, holy space where the only burden to bear is figuring out how to unleash my untold stories.  I am resisting the notion of going to a library or the local store/soda shop to write, because I have come so far for the stillness.

And then…I went up, up, up to the space above all of the day-to-day house activity:  the attic.  There I found a fan for circulation, a lawn chair for thinking, and in the middle of the room:  a table and chair overlooking the woods.  I have found a space to claim as my own the for the duration of our stay.  And it feels like everything will be okay now with this safe place to be vulnerable.

What are your thoughts?