My house always smells like cinnamon and nutmeg. Sometimes a touch of cumin or vanilla. Always warm, inviting and open. The word “clutter” was never allowed to enter into my vocabulary. Maybe because as a family we were always traveling (one small suitcase or rucksack each) or maybe because we valued each other more than any object we might own.
During the Spring, I called two of my biker friends and the three of us helped my father plant fruit trees and flower bulbs throughout the yard. I didn’t want him digging eight two foot deep holes or hauling around trees with giant root balls. So I made Nic and Jess do it.
My mother brought strong iced tea out for us at one point. My father put his arm around her waist and motioned to the three of us, still digging. “I’m surrounded by beautiful women today. No wonder so much is getting done!”
I like to buy myself flowers. At least once a week. Roses aren’t my favorites. I like carnations, mixed arrangements, baby’s breath, eucalyptus, mums, lilies, irises, straw flowers. I place bouquets around the house in simple glass vases. I “weed” regularly, removing anything wilted, and sometimes I dry them for more permanent collections.
On stormy days (gray, rainy, windy) I place bright flowers on the wide window sills. I love the contrast of color and form. The wild two tone of movement outside and the vibrant rainbow of the still life inside. Sometimes I can just sit with a hot cup of coffee on days like that and stare at the scene – color and storm – and find such clarity of thought. Everything becomes very clear. Very distinct. Ideas come to me fully formed.
It seems like such a simple thing. To buy flowers. It seems too simple. Maybe even a waste. But all I have to do is skip a mocha or latte out to have that bit of extra spending cash... and the rewards are so much more tangible.
A friend emailed me. He was feeling down. He had “writer’s block.” He's doing everything he should (singular focus on the book, attention to his goals and deadlines, immersing himself in the music and images that originally inspired him) but he feels panicked. His apartment is a wreck, he wrote. Dishes are piled in the sink. There’s no clean clothes. The fridge is empty except for yogurt and dill pickles. He takes frequent breaks but every where he goes he just sees distraction and chaos.
I showed up with broom and mop in hand, groceries on my hip. A new lined journal and $8 fountain pen were at the top of the brown paper bag. As were an arrangement of autumn flowers -- orange, red, brown, yellow.
After the “remodel” of Bo’s apartment, I walked six blocks with him to a café/coffee house he’d never visited before. I ordered a coffee for me and a Green Tea for Bo. I got us a huge chocolate brownie and two forks. We sat silently, eating and drinking, for about thirty minutes. The lined journal and fountain pen lay on the table between us. After a while more, I started to causally cruise the sexy barista and Bo started writing.
What is your external writing space like? It will influence your internal writing space. Seem too simple? Only as simple as bright flowers against a gray sky. Still colors against raging black and white.
E.J.
