A Closet of One's Own

I am on Art Pilgrimage.

Recently I decided to refocus my journey by using The Artist's Way. It's a path to creative recovery.

Was I feeling in need of recovery? No.

But now I wonder.

Cameron suggests doing three pages of long-hand writing every day. She says we should take ourselves on Artist Dates. I am doing these things, and it is spurring me to the oddest responses.

Take my bedroom closet for instance.

It was one of those shut-the-door-before-you-get-buried-by-the-avalanche closets. Maybe it was a picture of my mind. Maybe now that my mind is unfolding, relaxing, finding its way, I knew instinctively to clean my closet.

So I threw away a lot of things, carted some heavy-duty boxes from the basement (my version of California-Closet organizers), and made a secret place for my books beneath wool sweaters, cotton shirts and a yet-to-be worn dark lavender nightgown. (This effort has also produced a clean red oak floor beside my bed).

So I have a closet of my own. And this simple thing makes me happy.




Books in the Closet photo, by L.L. Barkat.