I work in a warm friendly room with windows that show only trees. My workspace has a comfortable clutter; it contains paints and brushes, desks and chairs, framed art along the walls, and my creativity. Over the years, it has embraced my many moods as it welcomes me with unconditional assurance each morning.
Remarkably steadfast, it does all this in silence, patiently receptive to whatever I will bring today. Sometimes I feel vastly unable to create, I am stuck, lost, in deepest despair. But the room doesn’t change, it remains warm and friendly, it is the world-silencing constancy within a ceiling and walls that allow me to hear what my Soul is trying to say.
As a human, I externalize myself. A room is a deeply spiritual thing. It is an answer from the within of things as I walk a seemingly outside world. I believe in my friendship with my room, I am surrounded by its living consciousness that is real and supportive of my subtle nature. I do not have a scientistic mentality, my room is not just a room, it is how I nest in time and space. It is my sacred creation. It keeps me sane by allowing me a space that is sane itself. In a way, my room is wiser than I am with all my tortured human doubts. My room has been produced by the part of me that doesn’t waver from the centeredness of being. I see my room for what it really is.