Create A Space

In my mind's eye, I can see it. On two sides there would be floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out onto the woods below. "Below," because the room itself would be elevated, either on the second floor or stuck up on stilts. The light comes with a green filter through the rustling leaves. Inside, it is warm, even on those foggy mornings when the sun is still working on making its way to this place: my studio. Where I work.
This is the place where I go to create. Sometimes I draw, sometimes I paint. My typewriter is there on my desk, facing away from the window because I don't want to be distracted. It's not a big desk, but it is substantial and wooden, especially when compared to the drawing table that sits just to the left. From there I can look outside, since when I am making pictures I want to be able to draw in light. And sound. Behind me is a small sound system with shelves full of CDs. These are the ones that keep me inspired when the view isn't enough. Rock, classical, new wave, and lots of soundtracks. That is when the sounds of the woods outside aren't enough. This is where all of the children's books have been imagined and pieced together. This is where all my talents come together and make the dreams I had into a reality I can share. It's just a few short steps down the hallway from my bedroom so that I can get up early or stay up late when the muse strikes me. It's where I work.
At least that's where it was in my teen-aged imagination. It still exists in, pieces. I don't have a typewriter, but I have a desk where my computer monitor and keyboard wait for me to come up with the day's sentiments. If I turn my head, I can look out a window and see a pair of trees: one that I planted when my son was born, the other a weed of a plum tree that continues to flourish in spite of our lack of attention. All the drawing supplies are tucked away in drawers and cabinets throughout the house. If I decided to paint, I could find brushes and paint, but finding an uncluttered surface might slow me down. This is where I live. I work at a school where the trees have been sacrificed for the asphalt playground. The sounds I hear are children's voices. Sometimes I get clever ideas for entertaining them. I tell them stories. I even draw pictures, from time to time. This is where I work.