I've sat here so many times before, but today this feels like a new space, a new venture, another positive step - one of many taken this Summer. I just moved my little table back to where it used to be last year, before a row of palms and ferns lined the window. I put down my writing journal this morning to rearrange this space. Been meaning to get on and do this for weeks - one of the things you get round to doing in long stretches of time off. Very satisfying, partly because it is so long overdue.
This small table - I guess it is more of a chest - has no room to tuck legs beneath it's drawers unless you open up the side flaps and double it's length, but I love it's glowing rich cherry wood and the old brass handles that fold silently and snugly into their recess. From when I first saw it, it has always reminded me of a ship, of the kind of furniture in a captain's creaking and sloping room, back in time, of economy of space for only the barest of essentials.
Bought from a pavement junk stall on a lunch break stroll, I had them deliver it to my workplace where my colleagues all downed tools to come and admire it and stroke it before the boss returned. It came in a rattling dusty open backed truck. A yawning Border collie was tied to it's leg with a faded blue rope. Later, I took it home to my yellow angular kitchen where it started every morning with me when the weather was too wet to have breakfast outside.
In the highest and brightest part of my home, I'm away from my music work space downstairs and all it's nagging associations and expectations of job, career, making a living. Less hemmed in by those concerns and with the doors wide open onto the balcony, I look around me. More like a den, this is a play space with my inspiring notice board, bookshelves, sketchbooks, a stack of unfinished canvasses, more of a personal space than the rest of the house. Precious territory, it feels like a huge comforting support for my creative journeying - a bit like a nest.