Monday, June 5, 2017

A Writing Desk of my Own

Last week we moved. Across town seems like it might as well be a different state-the 30 minutes from where we were a lifetime. I feel all the emotions changes like this bring. Sadness to leave the place we first brought Owen home, the place where he first spoke "mama" and "dada", where he was taught to walk, where he giggled and played and slept in our arms. The city and streets I grew up on. However, more than that I feel the joy and purpose that is unique only to a fresh start. A new place to live, a new position of the furniture, a new neighborhood, a new grocery store, a new outlook, a new start.

In a way this move feels a little like coming home. My father grew up in a neighborhood five minutes from here, and I spent each Sunday night of my childhood running through the fruit trees in the yard of that old house. The home my parents first brought me home to is just a few streets over-the church we now attend is the same building I was blessed in as a baby. I am literally right back where I started.

I love this old house already. It's charming bay windows and plethora of light make my heart sing. The view of the mountains as I lay in bed and the fireplace mantel dressed with fresh peonies fill me with a sense of home. One of my favorite parts of the house is a piece of furniture that we finally have room for-my great grandmothers writing desk. A beautiful old wood fold down desk that she left for me. I've always loved it, but it's meaning has increased with each passing year. I sit here now and glory in having a dedicated space for myself-a writing desk of my very own-and I wonder if she knew even back then how I'd love to write.


We talk a lot about turning our hearts to our fathers, an activity that has come alive for me since moving here. As I sit rocking Owen just minutes away from where my grandmother raised my father I can't help but wonder if she did the same. As write this at the gorgeous desk that was my great-grandmothers I wonder about all the letters she wrote here, the treasures she hid in it's many drawers. As I walk the halls at church, a baby in my arms, I think about my mother doing the same. I think of all that have come before that have made me who I am, and all that come next. I think of my little link in this never ending chain and wonder how I can make it strong, sure to connect the before and the after. I don't have a simple answer to this-but I have a feeling a good part of it might just take place in this exact spot, here at my writing desk.

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