A Room of One's Own

I've mentioned before that I have a 1926 cottage in a small Iowa town.  The town is big by Iowa standards but small compared to Fort Lauderdale - my home town.  We are in the process of selling this charming old house.  It has character and a name - Bessie.  I have never sold a home before but apparently there are rules.  The first rule is to make it appear that you don't live there and stage it to look like a magazine, preferably not Popular Mechanics.  The second rule is to keep it looking like this indefinitely.  If you are a neat person this is easy.  I'm a Golden Retriever and this is not easy.  I generally drop things whenever something shiny crosses my path.  When we "decluttered" and "staged" the house, I lost was my desk which was in the middle of the dining room (in addition to the dining room table and chairs).  It took one full week for me to declutter, purge and get it in boxes which were gently moved to a storage unit. 

Virginia Woolf wrote an essay I remember in bits called "A Room of One's Own".  This past weekend we went out to the storage unit and reclaimed the desk.  I have found a room and it is the basement.  The walls are painted white and I have a window, albeit a small one up near the ceiling.  I can see the bottom of the shrubs in the front yard.  It is cool and the drone of the air conditioner is similar to ambient noise.  The basement  is mostly bare except for the washer and dryer and now my writing desk.

The dogs love the new room.  They have not spent much time down here except for tornado warnings. Vegas is lying on a favorite moving blanket with her head on the cool cement floor.  The yellow velcro girl has padded up to bed already. 

Vegas and I will begin the journey up the stairs.  I am in that space where you know you need to go to bed but you don't want to waste time sleeping. I have a new journal and a space to call my own. The possibilities are endless...