The house was beautiful, as is the ridiculously cute little village in which it resides. An old Georgian house with rambling roses around the front door. Not too small, not too big. I really enjoyed absorbing the feel of the place, reading the material, admiring the little exhibits. What struck me the most though was her writing desk. I could have stayed there all day just looking at her desk and meditated on her sitting there by the window writing material that made the world a more beautiful place. She sat down at that desk every day and filled the pages with her creative words, capturing on paper some of the essence of life. I stood contemplating her desk and was filled with so many questions. How did she have the courage to sit every day and empty her mind on to the paper for others to read? How did she have the confidence to live according to her truest most authentic self, to do what she was so obviously meant to do in this world?
I think we all should have such a writing desk, a place where we can be, doing the thing we should be doing. Where is yours?