Space

The space where I work is a long, narrow room that sits at the end of my home.⠀
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There's a window behind my computer screen that looks out at the backyard, the bush beyond and a dramatic yellow wattle that blooms in winter. I've watched wildlife from galahs and cockatoos to snakes and echidnas fly and slither and wobble past its view.⠀
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There's a heavy, sturdy desk that I inherited from my in-laws when they closed the doors on their surveying business. It's big enough for a computer, typewriter AND printer.⠀
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There's a small but growing collection of art on the walls and shelves.⠀
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There's a bookcase filled to the brim, with the bottom shelves reserved for children's books.⠀
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And on any given day there are discarded coffee cups, shoes and notes scattered about the place. ⠀
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Of all the things in my office, this flotsam and jetsam of my life is what makes my heart do a little dance when I open the door.⠀
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Because, you see, in a house that's shared with my partner and two young kids, this office is my space and mine alone. ⠀
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This space is my artist's lair, my writer's hideout, my creative sanctuary. ⠀
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MINE. ⠀
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Whatever I leave here remains the same from the moment I click the door shut at night to when I open it again in the morning - juggling toast and coffee and water, with the dog hot on my heels.⠀