A Room of My Own

I am one scary Virginia Woolf in my room
&Although it is reckoned in Quetzals and not British Pounds it is luver-ly.

From my hard little chair I pound away on the iPad. It is rainy season and the waterfall applauds the last batch of clouds and words. Green on top of luscious, milpas rows are intent on wiggling straight up the volcano.

More than any other time, I have found the sanctity of my walls soothing. I am living in this body almost a score more than half a century. Now, in my half round studio, I am pounding on the flat keys.

Sometimes I crave the brick horizons of New York tenements, sometimes I remember the feel of upright typewriters.  What I am here is as different and as familiar as morning.

In this room, I have learned to listen for stillness and wait for answers. More than any other time or place in my life I flow and wave inspiration in. In the morning my brush is shakey but the colors are surprising enough to keep me watching …Sure I can put on my high white waders and go out in the rain…but sometimes I just close the door and listen in solitude.