One adjustment to being a mother is figuring out a work space for the work that needs to be done at a desk: paying bills, thinking through educational plans, hospitality events, calendaring, writing, etc. I need a desk. I am a desk person. And when I finally figured out where to put and use my old orange desk that belonged to my great grandfather, I was a much happier person. My office is the mostly unused front entrance hall to our old farm house.
It's a narrow, longish room but its two windows fill it with glorious light. One of the windows is original stained glass from the Sears company that the house was purchased from, ready to assemble, back in 1924. I love how it glitters and yet filters the sunshine into the room, onto my desk.
I am a desk person. Did I already mention that fact? When I married, I owned four of them and I have collected and sold others since my wedding. I'm always on the look out for a good desk, something unusual, a little special but work-ready. You can never have enough desks could be a motto of mine.
Without a desk, I work at the kitchen table and I get distracted by the pizza dough ready to form, the dishes waiting to be washed, the thought of a dessert that would be wonderful to make and eat. Or just the fact that I haven't gotten a shower yet. I really need the desk to anchor me to the work at hand. It feels more intellectual and important. It also usually gets that important work done.
Sometimes the long withering hand of undone tasks and stashes of stuff begins to bury my orange desk and I feel as if the thinking part of me is dying too. One night this week, annoyed beyond belief that it wasn't joyful to work there anymore, I cleaned it off and started again.
I added a frilly pink semi-miniature African Violet to the room and now I walk in there just to see it, to admire the clean simplicity of a work space that is all mine, all clean, and just calling me to sit down and do some work.