Virginia Woolf wrote that in order for a woman to write, she needs “a room of one’s own.” I would tell you more on this, but I never made it past page 60 of that book. It was dry and very UK English-y for me, and even though I heard that there was a hill to pass to get to the good stuff, I didn’t make it. For the most part, I got the point. In order for women to speak their mind, to voice their opinions, to have a seat at the literature table, they need the space—metaphorically and physically.
Ever since I began to dream of the possibility of writing as a thing I consistently did, I dreamt about said space, too. I would have books, a feather pen no doubt, windows with good lighting, pictures of powerful mentors I looked to for inspiration, a Persian rug I would inevitably find at a thrift store (like new! barely paid a dime for it!) and a comfortable chair and desk where I would write, and write, and write. That was, and still is, a vision I hold for myself.
Before we left, Wanja and I talked about how we wanted to spend our time in Döröske, together and alone, alone and together. He reiterated that his afternoons would be in his wood-working studio, building bows and finishing the bed he had started last summer and that I, too, would have the freedom to do as I wished.
I knew I wanted to write.
There is a lot of space on Wanja’s property. There is the front house which is comprised of a sleeping room and bathroom and kitchen and a sacred space intentionally labelled, “The Chapel.” Then there is the guest house, with all the essentials plus an upstairs space with three beds and one of those dream reading nooks that leans against a window looking out over the neighbour’s yard. Outside there are meters of garden space, and fruit trees, and ponds, and just before you get to the second half of the garden area, there’s an RV.
When we arrived, the RV was mainly the seed home. The little fridge inside was full of seeds that Wanja had either bought or preserved from past planting seasons. It needed some work, dusting and vacuuming and organising. It charmed me, the RV. I like small spaces. I loved sleeping in a tent for the quarantine months of Korona. In San Diego, my room was underneath the staircase (yes, like Harry Potter) and had little space for more than a bed. I loved it. The RV fit that category of small and sweet and bright and kind. I hardly even knew what I was saying when I asked Wanja if I could use it as my writing space for the summer, but I’m lucky that he said yes, of course.
Operation "bring in the good vibes" even got us out of the house and out to buy a new vacuum because you know I like to get every corner when cleaning. I forget wet laundry in the washer, yes, but I love a deep house clean. I took good care to keep all of Wanja’s things in order, and also succeeded in not reading found letters and skimming through found pictures. I’m curious—and nosy. I’m working on it. Windows were washed. Fresh bed sheets were moved in. Candles were intentionally placed. Books were stored on the shelves. A Clarissa Pinkola Estes quote was written on the mirror. Palo Santo was lit. The stage was set.
Like everything here, the RV has its own story. It was purchased by an old-old partner of Wanja’s, which was then bought from her by an old (just old) partner, and now-- it’s my writing space. Did this information first make me want to burn it to the ground, fluff up my lion’s mane and proclaim that I will write in no such past partner space? Oh, you know it. I’m only human, after all. But past the totally normal response to jealousy (...I’m healing), I realized what a blessing it is. After that, I was full of gratitude to them for it. The RV feels like a gift from the women in Wanja’s life and for that, I am joyful.
Okay, Virginia, a room of one’s own is all in order. Now, I just have to write. Sometimes, I do write. Sometimes, I move around words on a little magnet poetry board I made and hope that something will come out of it. Sometimes I think about what’s for dinner. That’s how it goes. Writing discipline is difficult and foreign to me. I’m used to homework assignments and deadlines and feeling accountable to someone else for my writing, I’m not accustomed to writing for writing’s sake. But as time goes on and I find my groove here, so, too, do I carve out spaces for putting my thoughts down on paper. You know this, you’re reading them now.
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