Yesterday was a big day for me. For the first time in my adult life I have an office space in my home all to myself. I'm hitting a milestone birthday in several weeks (40) and I thought it was about time I gave myself a little gift. A talented friend helped me turn our former guestroom into a beautiful, creative, soothing space for $100. She's clever at the discount stores - Ross anyone?
My office has walls the color of unripe green pears, white floaty silk curtains that cascade around my window desk, two armchairs, their past's hidden under slipcovers and decorative pillows. My books are displayed, my children's artwork is tacked on a bulletin board, along with the plot for my second novel. There is a vase of fake bright pink peonies that look remarkably real, and my Muse, a tiny ceramic sparrow given to me by my poet friend, Ann, sitting atop my Oxford American Dictionary on the left hand side of my Cherry desk. It is perfect.
Before yesterday, I had a corner of my bedroom allocated for my desk. That corner has served me well. I've run a successful coaching business (www.myauthenticpath.com) and written a 100,000 word novel from that tight corner. But, at the end of the day, when I poured my exhausted self into bed, my work was still there, lurking in the corner, calling at me, stressing me with its presence. They say the bedroom should be a sanctuary. Not quite.
But, the real question is why did it take me so long? I can tell you. I thought it was more important that we have a guest room for our parents that come several times a year, than it was for me to have my own space. I thought it was more important that my daughter's have a playroom and a bedroom to share between them. I'm not saying these things shouldn't be our family's priorities, but for better or worse, I've decided to make myself a priority, on the eve of my 40th birthday. I hope it doesn't make me a bad daughter, or mother. I hope it doesn't mean I'm selfish. Because guess what? I really don't care. Maybe that's what happens when you turn 40.
