a room of one's own.

First I want to say, thank you so much for all your fun and lovely moving wishes! We're reaching the home stretch, and tonight we'll be sleeping in our new digs!

{more milk here}

But sometimes I just don't know when to quit. Times when my whole being is rung out yet I'm still so high strung I can't actually stop. I've had pretty gnarly insomnia lately, something I haven't even had a wink of since, say, 2006. Last night, for example, a quarter after 3 in the morning and I'm glugging hot milk and honey. (No, this isn't a normal drink for me. This is my first milk&honey experience.) 

                            {honey by kristyn shobert} 

Serkan and I scurried around together all day: packing, moving, errand running and eventual painting with the help of one of Serkan's friends. I confess, all in all I was not a happy camper nor honey company. But in the end I was able to say yes to going out to eat instead of cooking with what odds and ends we could muster in the nearly emptied house. Not only was our meal delicious, but we shared some great conversation as well. 

It was a kind of family and funerals talk. And suddenly I was talking about Norman, this stuffed moose that must be tucked away in one of the boxes stacked in my aunt's garage. How I'd written a letter to my grandpa after Grandma passed away. It's gist was this:  

Dear Grandpa, Dad gave me this (Northern Exposure) moose the Christmas after Mom died. Now I'm passing it on to you, so he can keep you company too. 

I ended up with the moose again once Grandpa, too, passed away. I've been thinking about that moose a lot lately. 

{girl&bear by dim baidachnyi}

So, naturally, Norman the moose surfaced during the conversation about my family. You see, my husband has yet to meet the fam. We were married in Turkey (where he's from) about a year ago, we live in Chile, and the immigration process to get into the States is a pain in the ass arduous.

But right now I'm not thinking of Norman so much as I'm thinking about letters. For some reason, thinking about the letter that I wrote to my grandpa jostles me open a little. Looking back at it, I cringe. Something inside me (the editor? some icky authoritarian voice?) winces at the naivete. It's not just this letter, though. It's poems, it's stories. It's many. other. letters--several as yet undelivered. Raw, impale-your-vital-organ type post-its. Asking for mercy, wishing for grace, expressing pure love and, at their heart, asking to be loved. 

 {letters found here}

In my mind's eye looking back, there's something so (violently) innocent about these pieces of writing that remembering them makes me flinch. Of course, I'm likely the only one looking back with such a look on my face. But let's not confuse this look with something of regret. I don't regret anything I've written and delivered. Well, not deep down at least. Mostly the cringe is followed by a shudder of awe. That I had the courage to share that starkly honest & pulsing bit of me.

...

Recently I was on a roll creating postcards. The roll halted for several reasons. But now I'm looking forward to letter writing and postcard making at the sunny table in our new abode. For a while I had a writing desk set up in our soon to be old house with a collage of family photos beneath a piece of glass. Once winter set in, the room dimmed, and the desk was overrun by dust and discard piles. So I'm really looking forward to rediscovering a comfortable, bright workspace. 

              {of course, outside is nice too.}

What is your creative/workscape look like? Is it a special place? Have you ever created something that's given you goosebumps at some later stage? What is another word for that feeling, since it's not regret? So many questions, but I'm curious.

{photos 5&6: unknown, please let me know if they're yours.}