Working Spaces

Visitors think of them as the aberration,
preferring the neat perfection
of the living room,
or the serenity of the bedrooms upstairs.
They like the quiet of the front porch,
simple and nearly monochromatic,
everything in it’s place,
warm, and not too dangerous,
no hints of the raging chaos
that lives in your heart.

But they are not the aberration.
They are where you live,
these working spaces
with their cacophony of unfinished things,
of discovery and experiments,
where all is in flux
and where there is no completion
only the work. .

Those few, and they are few indeed,
who join you here,
who feel most comfortable
in the mess,
in the piles of paintings
or the eclectic clutter of your desk,
those few have the chance
to see your soul,
even as you find it
yourself.

About this poem. 

Most of my house is pretty neat. Close to company ready. Not exactly Better Homes and Gardens, but nice enough. My office and my studio however, are not.

I am one of those who is often accused of having it all together, of exuding confidence. I am, it seems, quite good at a lot of things, even as underneath, I feel like I am just plowing through.

Thank goodness for good habits, I guess. And thank goodness for working spaces, where it all sorts out, gets tried, where failure’s OK. Where the journey is more than allowed, but embraced.

Tom