In my old house, the one I lived in while married to my second husband, I had a large office. And in the office, there was a long table I built with my Dad. I used the table as a desk—computer on one end, stacks of books in the middle, and a place to draw and paint on the other end.
One long wall was lined with books. The opposite long wall held two windows that overlooked a lake, with a whiteboard for jotting down ideas in between the two windows. A large canvas hung on one end of the room. I set up a meditation space on the other end.
The room included a walk-in closet I filled to overflowing with art supplies and scrapbooks. I stacked my children’s art projects and memorabilia on the top shelf of the bookshelves and hung photos on almost every available blank space. There was also a futon in the room and an armchair.
When my kids came home from school, they’d come to sit on the futon and talk about their day. Sometimes they’d draw cartoons or graffiti ideas on my whiteboard. Sometimes they’d bring their friends. And when they grew up and left home, they’d come to my office first when they returned for visits.
My oldest came home from his first Navy deployment, took a look around, patted the dog’s head, and declared, “Mom, I’m calling this room the Density of Ideas.”
My office became the most popular room in the house. Even when I swapped rooms and crammed everything into a smaller room, so we could free up guest space, the kids and their friends still piled in.
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