The Shed. My Studio. The Tree House.
Why are names so important? I believe that the bearer takes on the meaning of their name. My kiddo certainly throws her full weight into her name’s meaning: perseverance (“But, Mommy”). My name means Big Tree in Hebrew. Heavy, I know. But, my parents didn’t name their kids on fads or a whim. They gave us names to memorialize beloved friends or, in my case, because of the attributes of a person. My mother named me after an Israeli soldier she read about in a book while she was pregnant. Perhaps that is why I have “failure is not a option” angst.
My studio needs a name. It can’t be the derogatory “Hey, you, Shed!” or the dismissive “You there, Studio. Fetch me that metaphor!” No. Not this space that has its own gravitational field. Even in its incomplete state, the studio tugs at me until last night I set up a lawn chair amidst the table saw, wood scraps and mosquitos and wrote until the light faded. 500 words in 30 minutes. Magical, easy writing.
The Tree House. Hubby gave it that name in passing, like you do with a stray dog that you no longer want to call “Puppy”. I’ll keep it – no pretensions or frou-frou ruffles. Rather than a riff on my name, The Tree House describes a place that feels as elevated as it is grounded.