I keep reading that writers should have a dedicated space to work without distractions. Serious writers probably do this, especially if it’s their primary source of income. I write for my own enjoyment in an old country house built in 1879. You might think living in the country would be peaceful where everyone sits in their rockers on the front porch sipping lemonade. In reality there’s always something that needs attention. I’m not including phone notifications. Those drive me insane, so I turn most of them off. The common distractions in our home come in the form of pets and chickens.
Charlie is the name of our 9 year old English Bulldog. She’s caramel color with white patches on her feet and forehead. When she was a puppy the patch on her head looked like a heart emoji. The heart patch doesn’t really fit her personality anymore. She’s getting sassy and ornery in her old age. Bulldogs are a special breed. If you have ever had one you know they are stubborn, snore loudly and fart every 15 minutes like clockwork. I endure most of her generous gassy moments since her favorite place to sleep is by my feet. She used to leap up on the ottoman and sleep between my legs but they’re too old and weak to jump anymore. She thinks she rules the house, even though that role is taken by my wife, Debi. She declared that animals must stay out of the bedroom and kitchen, for good reason. Nobody in our house enjoys finding hair in the food and her snoring keeps my wife and I up at night. We have another dog named Bentley, a husky/border collie mix with long milk chocolate colored coat and white patches. All she cares about is food and walking the perimeter of our property to sniff out rabbits and deer. She’s super smart but uses it to do mischievous things like open gates to access garbage cans. And then there’s Frank, our big male black cat. He likes to cuddle when he’s not being a jerk. They all hang out with me when I write. It helps if I build a fire in the wood stove. They love the warmth and sprawl out like cheetahs napping in the African sun. It’s part of my servant duties to feed them, let them out to do their business and make fires because if I don’t they gang up on me and make life miserable. Luckily, I love them all, even though they’re all spoiled rotten.
If it isn’t the dogs or cat disturbing the peace it’s our chickens, although this is mostly a summertime problem. When the weather is warm enough to have the windows open we can hear our chickens sounding alarm calls outside. If we had a rooster, he would be the one sounding the alarms. We only have hens, but one of them always assumes the role of protector of the flock. Alarm calls are made when predators are around. Usually it’s Cooper’s Hawk looking for a snack. Occasionally a coyote wanders through.
I recently read Stephen King’s book, On Writing, and he had a dedicated writing space in his basement. Personally, I don’t like dark basements. I don’t see well in the dark so I prefer well lit spaces. I suppose it would be fine if our basement was finished and well lit, but it looks like a good place to film a horror movie. No thanks. I love the natural light coming from the big picture window in the living room. It’s a lot easier to find a quiet place during the spring, summer and fall when I can just go outside. In the winter it’s a challenge. Like bears, we all migrate to a tiny den in the middle of the house where I can make fires and cuddle for warmth. In December it’s lovely. January feels like we’re all part of a survival documentary. In February, the fighting and complaining begins. I start hallucinating about warm summer days and spending time in wide open spaces.
Sometimes I get the urge to build a man cave. One would argue it’s a selfish thing and maybe it is. But, I’m smart enough to realize that I snore louder and smell worse than the dogs sometimes. My wife has to put up with me and the animals. Plus, she has one of those super sniffers like a Tennessee Bloodhound. An innocent little toot can be a knockout blow to her. Last winter I tried to create some personal space my workshop, but came down with a bad case of spring fever when warm weather arrived.
Finding a dedicated place for writing isn’t always because of the lack of space. Sometimes it’s about priorities. We have dedicated spaces for ceramics, printmaking, fitness, cooking, storage and sleeping. In the world of fitness it’s common to hear people say, “people prioritize what’s important to them”. This stings a little because I pride myself in prioritizing what’s important to me and living with intention. I had to revisit my Buddhist teachings to realize it’s okay to write without any attachments to how it should be done. The first thing that came to mind was the term, “non-striving”. It is one of the pillars of mindfulness. Before I go any further I need to point out that I’m not a Buddhist scholar. I study Buddhism to understand myself better and this could take the rest of my life. I see striving as an obsession with future goals instead of focusing on the present moment. Sure, I may create a dedicated space for writing someday but just sitting down to write in the present moment is all I need right now. I learned this through breathing meditation, which has been a daily ritual for a few years now. Writing isn’t much different. Creative flow requires the mind to focus on the present. The practice of breathing meditation helps me to be aware of distracting thoughts. My mind is full of them, but with practice I can recognize them, let them go, and refocus. Some days are easier than others. Some days it’s difficult, like when Frank knocks a pencil box off the table. Charlie (the enforcer) goes bat shit crazy over Frank’s behavior. At the same time, Bentley is picking trash out of the garbage. This is the universe telling me to do something else. On days like this I take a coffee break. I like mine black served with a side of chaos.
The Heron 