Space

I’ve grown more aware of space lately.

It’s over a year that physical distancing regulations have been in place. I can measure six feet from my person with alarming accuracy. And while distancing myself from others has been persistent, the encroachment on my private space has been incessant. It’s the worst of both worlds. Limited social contact with others; hyper-intensive daily contact with family.

Of course, family is important, so silver linings exist. It shouldn’t be needless to say that we’ve never been closer in our house. And that is a good thing. 

But I can infer from my time as a human being on earth that it is healthy to be social with others and maintain a space of some kind for quiet meditation. But I am the notorious recluse of our family. I seem to care about solitude more than wife and children care about solitude. For years, my Father’s Day request was time apart. This may sound cold and counter-intuitive, but I needed Father’s Day to designate that I am things other than a father.

Over time, that need to stand apart has diminished. I’ve seen, more and more, how satisfying it is to lose my ego in this family madness—to measure and appreciate us, not I. It is the way of peace, in fact. I’m sure of it.

Still, space is important to me. 

I don’t read books on screens, for example. There is something in the act of reading that requires space. Put a book on a screen and it lacks texture. It doesn’t look or smell any different than all the other apps. A print book develops personality over time. You come to expect a certain weight, feel, smell. It becomes a unique space of its own — a necessary characteristic, I think, when reading in order to expand the boundaries of the world as you know it.

While I won’t bore you with proof, I can differentiate and classify the feel and smell the different bound books I own. They take us places. It’s only fitting that we remember to take them places, too. As for my phone, I take it everywhere, anyway. There’s nothing deliberate about that. It has become automatic.

We’ve been curating spaces in our house, slowly.

Usually, it’s my designated space that gets thought of last. For good reason. Without a space to confine a sleeping infant, what good is having any adult space to enjoy?

One of my favorite spaces on earth is the sun room at our old house. It was the last room to receive our attention and the smallest room in the house. I knocked down the ceiling, finished it at its vaulted pitch, tiled the floor. My friend down the street had a sawyer plank the huge Ash tree in his front yard, so I hauled some of it over and affixed a wrap-around book shelf using industrial piping.

A local company installed new windows for us, and the dream was complete. It is the space where I wrote the most prolifically—one novel in 5 months of early morning sessions. That was with two kids, mind you.

But we moved shortly after that.And our new house, while more spacious, has fewer rooms.

The closest imitation to that sun room of mine is a glorified closet-turned-office. Upon moving here, the first thing I did was finish off the bookshelves in that closet of a space so I can transport my book collection. Although I couldn’t fit all the books that made it onto those Ash shelves, it gave the house a place that the kids would soon call “dad’s office.” 

We put the reading chair there, the one that belonged to my stepfather’s grandmother, the one whose upholstery tore at the elbow rest, the one where no one sits but me or my dog.

When I have to concentrate, I go there. And while no doors separate me from the family madness, the space, at least, has a purpose.

But this last year has been tough on that space.

I had to teach from there, loading up two computers on the small portable desk, peering over the screen to tell my children that I can’t speak to them right now because there is a class of literature students expecting the best from me coming between us.

I haven’t enjoyed a peaceful morning of writing since my daughter was born in September of 2019. I’ve had productive mornings, mind you. And those mornings allowed for the launch of a newspaper, but my productive mornings came because my baby daughter loved to wake up early then fall asleep on me in one of those baby carriers. Forget my office, I just placed a stool on the dining room table and worked while standing with my daughter strapped around my waist.

But things are changing around here.

My wife and I — both adamant adventurers — have accepted our great domestic calling without reservation. We are homebound and loving it. We are selecting and perfecting each square foot of our 3-bedroom, 120-year-old house.

Space is more important than ever.

That’s why when we saw that antique, drop-down desk, we knew we needed it. As united as we are as parents, my wife and I don’t agree on much. So when we both agreed that this one piece in all the antique showroom was stellar, we knew we had to haul it home.

At first, it was going to grace our living room. We were going to put it in a place where we both could use it. But then, the deal-breaker. It was taller than our mantle. And, as I’ve learned, you don’t want an ornate piece of furniture competing with the height of the hearth. Trust me. So my wife graciously offered to put it in my nook of an office.

It was a nice surprise. I hadn’t even considered it for my space. And I would level with you if I had. In fact, I’ll admit that I am manipulative by nature. It is in me to scheme to purchase, knowing it would be too tall for the living room. But that wasn’t the case this time. It was entirely my wife’s idea.

She knows how important it is for me to have a place to work. My man cave is surrounded by instruments, books, and this desk, made by an Illinois furniture manufacturer now 100 years out of business.

So there I am.

Looks perfect, don’t it?

Well, I sat down to write this post on the last day of my spring break, with the desk fully installed. Outside of the window you can see our porch. And after ordering my children to be outside so I could have some peace and quiet in my newly furnished writer-space, they chose to bring every instrument they don’t know how to play out onto the porch. I had to move upstairs to write this to avoid the clamor and cacophony.

There will be plenty of days ahead when I can write at that desk.