Ah, one of the great things about being a senior is grown kids. One bedroom becomes a space for computer stuff, you know, writing books, researching, drinking pots of coffee and admiring the comfort of PJs in a chair that must have been lowered down from heaven itself. My husband bought this chair for me. Too bad I need to let out coffee every two seconds, it seems, because I could sit all day without discomfort. There’s a spare bedroom downstairs, and I put dibs on it. It’s where I hook my arm into Jesus’ arm and say, please teach, show and tell me all I should know from You today.
These would be perfect spaces for me if the following were true: downstairs would have a coffee maker, large mug, small spoon and Truvia bowl. Truvia is the brand name for a seventy-five percent less sugar mixture with stevia. Washroom is close enough. I’d have a cold water thingamajig onsite too. I’d love it if these things were part of my private space. But I do I have several Bibles, Bible dictionaries, notepads, reference books, a desk and comfy chair, Jesus’ Spirit, and a focusing brain. That’s good for the downstairs, all set.
The bedroom I took over upstairs needs the following: A thick noise blocking glass doorway. This way I can let my kitty in, she just likes to be with me. However—that same glass doorway ought to mute the husband who asks questions that could wait, and block also his failed attempts to not drop crash-y things, keep his laptop from filtering in annoying music and making me nuts, and the failed attempt to not talk on the phone so bloody loud while I form my writing into books, stories, blogs, or frustration events. Why are men and boys unable to just make , um, shrug, normal noice? No, I’m serious! Even their breathing seems to carry sound farther than woman and girls. My hubby has a fave pair of moccasin slippers. They’re a little big as he’s stretched them out with mammoth socks. They scrape and scuff along, stopping at my door. Oh, I see, he felt excited to tell me what he just saw on Facebook. Or what he’ll make for lunch. He’s good at taking care of his own guts of hunger, and I praise him for that, even though he interrupts a lot. Dyslexia is a double giver. It gives me a hard time with writing, but I see words as images with this condition, and that’s an awesome talent for writing descriptive phrases. So I need an extra loophole for concentrating.
To be fair, those who don’t write on the regular have no idea the amount of silence a person needs to focus and write something decent. But, you know, all these feeling of irritation dissipate when I have forgotten I need sustenance, and my hubby comes in with a plate of food for me, and asks if I need anything else. I have chronic low blood sugar, and I should eat something every three hours. So let’s cancel the noise proof glass door after all, and just train my guy to give me a few hours before interrupting. I suppose my writing space has all it needs. Computer, writing paper, pens, dictionary, printer, full bookshelves, cat ornament, business cards, touch lamp, love, and small wastebasket; a large waste basket encourages errors. Anyway, yeah. I suppose I have what I need, even what I want. Looks like it’s actually perfect then. I love writing, my kitty, and my husband. That really is perfect.
ohsohumanspirit 