A Room of One’s Own
By Vicki Peyton, Inland Empire Branch
The westerly rain is wind-driven; I can hear the ferocity of it, punctuated by thunder that rattles the window. Flashes of lightning cast an eerie glow on the wall.
Other days, it’s the arriving sound of the wild flock of parrots, but their calls ebb to the east, no doubt distracted by some other pursuit.
In more quiet times, it’s the Blue Jay calling for the peanuts that I feed him, or it’s the wind pinging palm tree seeds in a staccato sound against the metal door. When it’s silent, the only sound is the whirring space heater in my January room.
My niece’s Aurora Borealis photograph hangs over my writing desk, illuminating a northern horizon. It reminds me that one day I want to visit them; perhaps I can combine this trip with a ride in a tundra buggy to see the Polar Bears. A nearby calendar tells me that the days are slipping into an unknown future.
Next to my desk is an old oak barrister bookcase. Filled with beloved books? No, I’m beginning to fill it with the quilts that I make, but writing has almost all but replaced the hours that I spent sewing. An unfinished quilt is draped over the quilting machine behind me. It’s a daily reminder that it’s been sitting there for months; maybe this will be the week that I finish it.
Books about the writing craft sit on top of a bookcase; I consult them from time to time. They’re surrounded by my sixty-plus-year-old Smokey the Bear. Although his hat and his shovel disappeared years ago, he has a benevolent and encouraging smile; he is none the worse for the loss.
Two wagon wheels are propped up in the corner. They are out of my eyesight when I enter my writing room, but when I look, they remind me that I want to place one on either side of the lemon tree in the garden. I want to plant tiny and colorful succulents between the spokes, but writing has taken over my desire to be outside. Instead, words and pictures fill my mind. I have to create the vistas and the places that I feel and the people that I meet. Words and sentences make sense of the happenings in and around me.
My room has no time boundary. Time passes, but in the space of a single car garage, I’ve discovered an interior life and how to heal the simmering wounds in my heart.