My writing desk sits facing the corner of a big, first floor room, directly across the chandeliered hall from the formal, parsonage parlor. I share this airy office space with my husband, the resident pastor. Two wallsare lined with shelves, heaped with books stacked and propped in precarious disarray. Two other walls are taken up by the Reverend's desk and accoutrements.High ceilings and a pocket door of heavy wood date this room, like the house, as a Centenarian.
My desk is small, sitting on a diagonal, with a two drawer cabinet to the left and a long-legged end table to the right. When I roll my chair forward I'm sitting in a small U. Some days the image of moving into a corral, about to sit on the wild horse named Writing, is vivid and unshakeable.
Immediately behind the low filing cabinet to my left, is a large window that overlooks Main Street-no, really, Main Street-in the small village. Two chair cushions sit on the cabinet top, arranged in a fashion that offers the large, grey tiger cat a marvelous view of the front walk. Each day, cat and I enter this space. He sleeps and purrs. I type and grind my teeth. Both of us stare out the window from time to time and contemplate freedom.
On days when I have nothing left to say, no idea worth researching, no thought worth blogging, I stare at hula Bob. He stares back, his enigmatic smile hiding a world of thoughts his plaster mouth will never share. At six inches high, hula Bob has no pretensions he will ever be more to me than he is—a sweet and silent touchstone I can push around at will. I like to give him a gentle nudge now and then to see him sway, his pink grass skirt dulled by time but still swooshing when he dances on his hidden spring. In the gray light of winter, ever poised on my desk edge, I consider putting a little shawl around Bob’s bare shoulders. Frustration breeds strange ideas.
As autumn deepens, I look at Bob and wonder if he plays the little ukulele clutched to his chest during the longer nights. I smile, imagining him serenading the two foot tall wooden angel that sits on the opposite desk corner. Perhaps Miss Angel opens her painted eyes and winks at Bob after a romantic island ballad, strummed when the moon stares just right through the window blinds.
Each day I wake pleased I have a place to go, though it is only a corner. I am thankful for the familiarity of objects that look on my efforts with benign amusement and good will. I am contented to have the comfortable companionship of a cat to share my window. I am blessed to have a gentle parson offering silent support as he taps in his own world, adjacent to mine.
We move down the same quiet path, pastor and I, as the hours slip by—the Reverend in search of that special word to catch the heart of a parishioner while I search for that special word to catch the eye of a publisher--both of us so trusting that prayers are answered and dreams come true. Faith is inexplicable.
