a room of her own

in my last apartment, i had a wonderful sunroom. it was my favorite thing about the apartment. the problem was that it overlooked the courtyard shared by all the apartments, which meant that we were all basically staring at each other except at odd hours of the day when all the students were in class or asleep. but my writing nook was in that room–my purple chair, bought for me when i was a baby, by my grandmother, my ottoman that i bought on a street corner in new york and a pot of tea made in the teapot my father gave me for christmas. my father remembers very few details about my life (he once forgot my middle name), and that he remembers consistantly that i love tea and teapots always makes me happy. anyway…sermon writing often happened in that spot in the sunroom at 4:00am, when all the world was asleep but me and the holy spirit.

from june until october, i lived in transition–all my belongings in storage, house sitting for a friend. sermon writing was different because i didn’t have that room, that space. although i had a huge house to myself, there was no nook, no ottoman, no teapot. it was, in short, not my room.

my living room is pretty much unpacked at this point (it’s taken me forever and a day to get unpacked and it’s still happening, but that’s another post). i’ve found the teapot and the chair and the ottoman. but i’ve changed it up some. the chair in which i sit has changed and i no longer need the ottoman. there is no sunroom–just a row of window and silver sage paint on the walls. but the room is mine. i look out on the wet chicago street, lined with trees where leaves are turning from green to yellow, and am grateful to be home.

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