I am building an art studio—a place to write and paint and separate myself from the house. Everyone needs a space of their own—a retreat from the noise, the phone and demands that a house calls out.
It is filled with light and air and possibilities. I have hauled in an antique Spanish armoire to house my supplies and placed a 1925 mahogany table in the center. Today, my husband hung a chandelier to inspire my romantic side and to fill it with light as the sun drifts away. He, and the chandelier, make me smile in appreciation.
There are paintings in my head and stories in my life that will find a canvas and a page. Saints that wait for their portraits, hang in files, and books around me. There is a monk inside me that demands expression. There is divinity in my mass collection of monastic pieces to inspire me. Crosses hang from my neck and wrist and walls. Santos look pensive and silent without arms and hands to hail me. Angels peer down from the ceiling and peek from the corners. Everyone is watching and waiting for what happens next, including me.
