Sure you have your own writing desk, one lovingly crafted over the years. You can still see evergreen where it bleeds through the turquoise you painted over it, a tribute to the expansive lightness of your beloved skies. The inevitable wear and tear of scratches and well-worn grooves where your feet rest on your chair are as familiar to you as the lines on the palm of your hands. And the scattered gemstones, carelessly placed daisies, and stacks of half-read books only add to this still life, a study of a writer's mind.
But sometimes you need to forgo the creative splendor of that desk for the warmth and sanctity of the kitchen table. Here you can spread out and make your journal and pen at home with the salt and pepper shakers. Your hands can smooth the wrinkles from the homemade mustard and ochre tablecloth strewn with embroidered vines and buds impatient to burst open, a gift from your mother; this homey task is a welcome respite for your fingers, much more soothing than finding their way around the roughness of each wooden groove and lost story on your writing desk.
The only music is the whistle of the kettle and the sound of you and your words breathing in unison. Perhaps there is even some stew simmering on the stove, perfuming your cozy space with comfort and garlic. There is no room for dainty tea cups here, just as there is no time for a lady-like cup of Earl Grey. Only fat mugs will do, enough to hold the rich brew you concoct out of oat straw, alfalfa leaves, and astralagus root. This is working tea. It fills you up with nourishment from the earth and protects you from the elements. Each sip brings you closer to the ground, where you write best.
It is easier to plant your letters in that minerally dirt and watch words bloom. Their sun is the glitter from the mica mugs from which you slurp your tea. And you watch with the pleasure of a gardener who has pulled the last weed from her plot of land, as those words unfurl into sentences, and burst into story just as the tight buds on the tablecloth erupt into bloom.
Only at the kitchen table can you get your hands dirty and your mind clear.
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