I have a proper bedroom, but about five months ago, I decided to move into another tinier room and sleep on the sofa bed. There’s hardly any space in here—the room is filled with books and magazines, my desk, a hundred paper bags filled with things I’ve bought but haven’t put away (I like the surprise of discovering something brand new all over again a few months after I buy it). The door is only about four steps away from my bed but I still manage to trip myself as I walk. It’s so makeshift I almost feel like a student again. I don’t even have a proper bedside table, so my lamp sits on a stack of books piled on top of an paper box. But it sits perfectly, and there’s even room to spare for two decks of oracle cards, remote controls and my phone—I have everything I need in this 20sq foot of space
But oh, what a sacred little space. It is here that I dream and breathe, where I meditate and sit with my feelings, no matter how good or bad they are. It’s where I kick up my legs as I laugh too loudly and talk on the phone with a best friend. It’s where I sit to write and write and write, get lost in a book, doze, wake up to read, doze again and eat crumbly bits of Toblerone.
It is where I start my days, the light of a dusky blue morning creepy in between white curtains and I hear my furbaby bark his good morning to the neighbourhood. It is also where I end my days, moving from movement, activity, noise, thoughts, into this gentle quietness, where it’s okay to just lie and rest and be.