I cleaned off my desk the other day - you know that plain wooden table we have just inside the door. I cleared off nearly two years of old mail, rejected art projects, children's fleece jackets and hats. I made a space for myself there, even though the office chair is broken, and sinks to the floor if you sit there too long. Even though the radio is in the wrong spot for the antenna to work, I made a space for myself.
Do you know how good that feels? To know that there is one corner here in this two-bedroom apartment that is mine and mine only? Even if, as I glance at it now, I see two children's backpacks stacked there and a bag full of miniature Christmas stockings for next year? Even if, I am standing typing this at the kitchen counter, not at my special Mommy work space?
I might not yet have the space for a room of my own. But for now, a battered wooden table is enough.