After a few tumultuous years I have finally found my sanctuary, my home. And it feels indescribably good. My overriding aim for 2008 was to buy my own flat. My own space, no matter how small, that I could finally call my own. That I could paint bright pink should I so choose (not that I would, you understand), that I could furnish to my own taste (once I have figured out what this is) and to which I can return every day, close the door and know that I have achieved this without the help of any man.
This wintry morning finds me daring to relax and to recover from a persistent cold, sat in bed, cocooned by sumptuously squishy cushions and watching the weekend's frost glisten as it slowly thaws from the patchwork of rooftops beneath me. The only sound is the occasional chirrup from the blackbird perched on a bare branch of the treetop that brushes my bedroom window. A tree that will mark the passing of the seasons in my new home - from barren winter, through budding spring, blossoming summer, to crisp and golden autumn and so, again, to winter. Like that tree, I have finally put down roots and already I can feel the seeds of a new future starting to take sprout and to seek the light and energy to grow.
I have finally allowed calmness to enter my life and am learning that the one thing from which I have been seeking sanctuary is myself. It has taken two and a half years but I am now at peace with my own company. I have come to guard it almost jealously on occasion and of course, have to not allow that to become the route to reclusiveness. But I hope that in finding peace, I have come to not only recognise my faults and idiosyncrasies but to accept them. As long as they don't harm either myself or other people, they are simply akin to the colour of my eyes or the length of my limbs. They are a part of me.
And as I start to relax the worries and free my mind from the agonising clutter, I note that I can again hear the wee characters that used to clamour for attention to be developed, to be sewn together to form cohesive plots rather than short, abrupt scenarios. A dormant creativity is emerging and it is incredibly exciting. I am nervous to put pen to paper after such a long time and to see if I can translate the characters around me into participants in a story of my own weaving, but I think I have found the courage and head space to at least try. To once again clutch a notebook and pen in my hand at all times and to observe, tickle my mind into creativity and to write.
Such is the power of having a home. A sanctuary of my own making.
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