Writers write. Right? Right, but where do we write. Most of the time, I write on my lap while sitting on my sofa. Now, while this is probably not the best thing for my posture, it seems to work very well for my muse. At least until the hounds start a barkin’ and a hollerin’ for a snack, a walk, or some attention. That’s when I run away to my office, my space—the place where a writer is meant to write—a place that I’d like to share with you:

As I pass over the threshold to my office, I enter another world—my world.  It feels like coming home—warm, serene, cozy. I am surrounded by my Medicine. Caribou hangs to the north—opening a window into her world, one of travel and abundance. She is an inviting blanket of cloud and earth.

To the west, my desk looks upon the world outside my space—the plant world, the mineral world, the animal world. Once a part of the plant world herself, my desk has seen much. She is infused with an energy that until now, I had only dreamed of ever experiencing. Like the life-giving sap that once flowed through her, I pray the right words will flow through me now, effortlessly, onto the paper which her luxurious limbs have so generously also supplied. My desk invites me to pass through another doorway into yet another world—one of imagination and fun, happiness and sorrow, fantastic other worlds. Resting upon her back, lie the tools of my trade—pens, pencils, blotter, laptop. A carved eagle at rest on his perch watches over my progress, reminding me to look at things from other perspectives and more importantly, to learn to soar.

To the south, another tree carries my altar upon his back—carefully placed items from where I’ve been tell tales of what I’ve seen, what I’ve heard, what I’ve experienced. To some, they are just things. For me, they hold an energy that I can draw upon in times of weakness, doubt, or fear. A shattered arrow symbolizes bravery, the power of my words. An intricately carved, wooden container holds ashes—the sacred remnants of prayers for peace, joyful songs of happiness, hopes and dreams for the future—the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy—the 2009 Return of the Sacred Fire Ceremony in Greenland.

My mask reminds me to lay all the faces of Donna aside to be authentic, to be me, to simply be. California White Sage—from the hills behind Santa Barbara where I once met a Bobcat. His message—now is the time to unleash hidden desires, to unlock inner secret wisdom and talents.

To the east, a wall of faces—creased and smooth, young and old, family, friends, acquaintances, strangers—all of them my teachers.

Below, on the floor, an exquisite work of art welcomes me—the artisans nimble, discerning fingers having masterfully knotted their moods into a beautifully hand-woven rug. Their hopes and dreams have traveled so very far from home. I welcome them into my world. I thank them for being instrumental in keeping my feet warm, my eyes filled with wonder, and my heart dancing with joy.

And lastly – above – feathers.

Hawk, raven, peacock, sparrow – their quills dangle, suspended from the ceiling—clinging to memories of having once kissed the sun after soaring effortlessly through soft, billowing clouds—they often dance on the back of brother wind slipping through an open window.

Where do you write?