It’s almost 2018 and I find myself sitting at my favorite writing spot, my desk in our tiny home library. We renovated this space, which was a tiny kitchen, into a quiet retreat. It was meant as a place to go when the rest of the house was in chaos. Primarily, it was a space for my husband to use while grading papers. Here, he could escape beyond the sounds of the television and conversations in the kitchen. Here, he could close the door and play whatever computer game he wanted. Or turn the volume up when Pandora played his favorite celtic band.
I appreciated it when he suggested that I could have a corner in the space. It was exactly the thing I needed. From my desk, I run our family corporation, dig around on genealogy sites, and it is where I write this blog. Its close proximity to the kitchen means that I could cook and write. Or write and cook, as it generally happens.
I love this room. It’s constant northern light stirs my soul. It’s walls of bookshelves are the perfect backdrop to my musings. Through the window, I can see the pecan trees. Thanks to the perfect placement of my monitor, I don’t really see anything else. I can pretend that our quiet neighborhood almost doesn’t exist and that the only thing outside are the trees and sky. For me, it is the perfect spot.
This room is almost magazine perfect. My little corner is almost always (sorta kinda) organized. But behind my designated portion of the long black countertop, my husband has filled his section with things. I often look at the stacks of forgotten items and wonder if he’d miss any of it, should I ever decide to tackle his mess? I know the answer. He’d instantly know something was amiss, even if he hadn’t touched the thingamajig or whatchamacallit in years. He’d know it was a missing and look at me accusingly. So I’ve learned to ignore the mess beyond the printer that divides the workspace.
As I sit looking at the pecan trees and blue sky, I think about the single-word writing prompt that WordPress has suggested. Almost. It’s almost a new year. The current year is almost over. I’m almost over a bout of bronchitis. It’s almost my birthday. I’m almost 54. Wait, what?
I am almost 54.
That certainly wasn’t something I had thought about before typing that sentence. The truth is, I never really think about my birthday. They aren’t a big deal to me. I’m certainly proud to have them. But I certainly have never adopted the “princess for a day” attitude. I’ve got much too common-sense for all that. I’m not even that crazy about birthday presents. I typically mark the day with a new selfie to acknowledge that time is stomping its way across my face and document that the color has almost drained from my hair. Almost.
As light begins to fade, I realize that it’s almost dinner time. It’s almost time to cuddle up with my boys (tomcat and beagle hound included) and watch a couple of hours of television. Then, before I know it, it will almost be time for bed. The end of another, almost perfect day.