“There’s a pretty intense storm coming, almost here. Is Molly down there with you?” P.J. called down.

” — hhhesshhh dwnnnnhrrrr,” I called back.

“What?”

I spit out the wrench in my mouth. “She’s down here with me. Probably not enough time to give her trazodone. Almost done, be right up. I’ll sit with her in the bathroom if she needs it.”

I tightened the last few bolts and smiled. Two new chairs for the deck. Friends are coming over this weekend, the first we’ve hosted since adding a deck, and now there will be enough seating for everyone to be comfortable. We asked them to come because we have a remarkable view of the White Mountains and it’s incredibly selfish to keep it for ourselves.



P.J. and I are both surprised by my willingness to sit outside. I initially disavowed the entire concept of the front deck, given my aversion to heat, sun, spiders, wasps, mosquitoes, and generally the entire outdoor/natural world. But there are two rocking chairs and a tiny table between them, and each evening (earlier and earlier), we “go sit out” and watch the belt of Venus form and then wane. Sometimes it’s chilly and we have blanket wraps, and there are usually two mugs of tea with milk and honey on the table. There are still mosquitoes, but it’s a sacred space now, and I’m drawn to it. The breeze and birds and distant dogs and cows bring on dusk. Staring at the distant mountains opens me.

The other sacred space in our home is the opposite of a distant mountain view. When we renovated the basement, the staircase was drywalled in and a door added to make a storage closet. It was intended for all things holiday, but after shoving in the bins and boxes and Christmas tree, there was still room enough for my idea to take shape.

I painted the whole closet as close to the shade of peaceful hot cocoa as I could. I hung a curtain in front of the clutter, made and hung a shelf on one side. I added a rug, a writing desk less than three feet wide, and a small task chair. I used flexible board and dowels and caulk to proximate a ceiling. Battery-powered fairy lights cover it, the switches by the door. The light is just enough.

This is my writing closet, or my “office” at home. There is no electricity, only enough light to see by and space for my laptop and a cup of coffee. The shelf holds my music scores and some assorted notebooks. I have to sit down before the door can close, and once inside, the space is a pillow fort, a tent in the dark, a blanket draped over chairs, the perfect hiding place. A place to whisper into this keyboard.

One space opens me and one space shelters me. Both spaces are sacred. Both are home.