For a long time I coveted the idea of having a room of my own, but when I read that a room of her own didn’t bring Virgina Woolf solace in this life, and that Woolf committed suicide, the desire for a room of my own lost its luster. Instead I look for places in between-stolen moments-for my quiet place.
Some days those stolen moments are the forty-five minute drive down a one lane mountain road to the post office. Other days it is entering into the Zen practice of hand-washing a stack of dishes for an hour and a half while the chaos of the Captain, the kids, and running a home business in too small a space whirl around me. My favorite slice of quiet is before the day begins. The Captain is up and bound to work and the stove top espresso maker, but I linger in that small space of time before the wheels of the day begin turning. I look out the window to the west toward the trees and coming weather. I hear the chickens, the goat, or the insistence of a cat at the door. I wait in silence choosing my moment to toss the covers aside and bolt out of bed.
This week we asked you to write about your quiet place. Where is it? What does it look like? What happens there? Our word limit was 200.