Early at the Desk

Desks harbor years of secrets, study and creativity

I’m alone. It’s quiet. It’s early morning at my desk. These days, I’m there at the time when the flat dark comes before dawn.

After I start the coffee, shave, exercise, dress for golf on a good day, or simply hang in sweats, I take the position.

Now at the desk, with the coaster ready for the cup, computer booting, the room getting clobbered by the embers of early morning light, I find pleasure. I watch the dark roll back.; first, at the low wall that defines our yard, then the grass cradling our Allison Newsome statue, the trees, and finally the homes in the distance. Predictably dynamic and never fails.

On the desk is a line of books that catalyze my writing: Mary Oliver’s Poems, The Writer’s Devotional, 101 Famous Poems. There on the edge is the glass case with the fountain and Cross pens I’ve collected over the years. They link me to the past.

I’m not sure why there are two Chapstick tubes and a nail clipper. Necessary, I guess.

The light comes through the window and glints off the top of the desk. It gets my attention.

I love gazing even though it may diminish my work output. Gazing is pausing. Pausing is thinking. Thinking may mean creativity.

At the coffeepot’s last gurgle, I dash. Just a splash of whole milk. I return to light my candle. I love its mini crackling and fragrances, today tangerine cranberry.

Love my companion

I’ll get to my writing, but for the moment, it’s a concrete scene of trees, clouds and colors beyond the window. The trees are swaying in the mild wind; there is a woodchuck, an occasional deer, pervasive squirrels, and birds. There is the woodchuck. There is the squirrel. Nature is such a reliable outcome.

The other corner window spreads early morning light over my left shoulder, where a spit away is the bird feeder. The windows in this modest room become picture-like, for from them I can see my world.

The birds are predictable and become friends. The tufted titmouse, a nuthatch, cardinals, woodpeckers, flickers, and the ground-level cleanup brigade of doves scratching, squirrels twitching with tails flaunting while eating sunflower seeds from their forefeet.

Time for soft music in the background, fulfilling yet not distracting, as it soothes. I scroll to my favorite station, Venice Classic Radio Italia. They play hummable classics, soft, acceptable, good for relaxing and writing. Today it’s Beethoven's Concerto for Pianoforte.

From the desk, I can know a lot, or at least I think so because I have access to a lot.

I look at a couple of news blogs. My glass of news is full enough. It dampens my enthusiasm. After a quick review of ‘important’ emails, I write, averaging two hours a morning.

Sometimes my musings are restless as I try to grab an idea that reflects on my life. But the idea can be slippery and devoid of meaning. That’s when I pause and look to the views and maybe clip my nails, draw a cartoon, or bring out the Chapstick. This routine anchors me and helps me focus my thinking. Now I stop and pay attention to my task: writing.

Writing is rewarding. It gives so much. My enjoyment, and whatever I can give to my readers, is my reward. Get up, do your thing, and then write.

I leaned forward to think with my knuckles folded under my chin. There was something in doing that.

Desk habits provide psychological comfort, perhaps even safety. It’s a routine that anchors and nurtures me as I create a voice. I am solitary in its world.

My previous desk, a bulky, reliable oak that I used in high school and college, was my father’s. It had a secret to locking the drawers without a key. Simply close them with the center one last.

It had other secrets where years of memorizing and thinking spilled on its surface and infiltrated its drawers. It was too cumbersome for our small home.

The more formal desk I now have fits better in this smaller home, but it is not close to the charm of The Oak.

That old Oak? Now grandson Zachary’s. Its legacy lives.

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