Moving my belongings into the old shed / new office space was overwhelming. I’ve uncovered things that have been boxed for over 5 years. Items I had thought lost or had forgotten about entirely, stirring both melancholy and joy.
Inspired by my own creation, I stepped back to write about the space, remembering the lines of Virgina Woolf’s essay A Room of One’s Own that I read 20 years ago as an English major: A woman must have money and a room of her own in order to write fiction.
I haven’t had a room of my very own in over 7 years. I know there are women (and men) out there who may never have this privilege, so I feel quite blessed. If you haven’t carved out a room (or a space if en entire room is impossible), I highly recommend it. And when you do, or if you have, just sit in silence with it for a while, then write whatever comes.
A Room of One’s Own
Virginia Woolf knew
how we would sacrifice our selves
daily to keep the world running
behind the scenes
The space I have staked has her ghost
prints all over it
Sometimes I shut myself inside
and cry for every injustice my world
has conceived
Sometimes I just breathe and watch
the imperfections of my cocoon
assume my humanity
I speak with inanimate objects because
I choose to believe gods are everywhere
one moment after another we choose and live
until we don’t
I have unopened every box
and scattered the remains of
lovers punishments and sin
I have ordered my papers and colours
by categories of want
instead of should and could
I have retread and retraced
every floorboard every pebble-path
of strangled enlightenment
In the quiet cold
every object stretches and
opens its eyes in a brilliant
cacophony of years
