Ever since I was a young girl discovering a love of writing, I’ve dreamed of having a special little study (preferable sited somewhere in Scotland or England) where I’d be inspired to craft my tales of medieval lords and ladies.
It’d be properly gothic: dark and cozy, filled with deep shades of damask and velvet, aged wood, and riverstones all around the fireplace. And books. Shelves and shelves of books all around me. My antique writing desk would sit against a long, tall window, french doors would stand a bit over to the side of the desk; in temperate months, I’d leave the doors open a bit so I could hear and see and smell nature in my garden as I wrote, even treating myself to a walk through whenever I was blocked.
And oh, what a garden I’d have. It’d be filled with all my most favorite perennials: lungwort, heliotrope, lavender, clematis, phlox, hostas…and my dear English Roses. How I love them, their form, their colors, and best of all, their fragrances. These lovely roses are created by David Austin, known as the Father of the English Rose. I think he must be a god. http://www.davidaustinroses.com/ (Here’s a fabulous place to buy English roses: http://www.heirloomroses.com/ Check out their “about” pages to see why they’re so great–I bought mine from them as little bare roots 5 years ago, and they are huge and healthy now!)
When we first moved in, I commandeered a tiny room in the back of the house. Well, it was dark. The only window faced an old gray cedar fence about 7 feet from that window. Not very inspiring. No view there. But privacy. And it was (mostly) my own space. Even so, I found it difficult to write very much in that room, and over the years, however, it has become my jewelry studio and yarn repository (at least for half the stash…). It’s still not conducive to creating anything though, as much as it is good for storage, and once I had saved enough money to buy my little laptop, the world opened wide. Like a flower, I guess you could say. I happily wandered from room to room to find my space in this house.
Now, as I write this, I can look up, through our tall windows and across to our back yard to where my three, huge, English roses and clematis are blooming, nodding their fragrant heads at me as the wind blows. Wild and unkempt. I suppose a bit like me.
And finally, I have a place where I find myself inspired.