The luxury and necessity of SPACE

Thoughts from a West Texas porch

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This morning, I watched the sun rise over a wide open expanse of pasture from the front porch of the Perini Ranch guest house. It was gorgeous and heart-expanding. I’m in Buffalo Gap. Texas. Population 549. (Many more cows! And longhorns!)

I almost cried with joy yesterday when the lovely PR lady drove up to this cozy cottage, built in the 1880s, and handed me the keys.

It is mine for the next 24 hours. There is seltzer in the fridge and a big plate of fruit and a Mr. Coffee for the morning. There is a four poster bed. Fresh flowers on the dining room table. A cowboy hat hanging by the front door.

There is SPACE.

As a mom of two little ones, there is not a lot of space in my home, my day, my brain. I go to bed anxious about what will happen in the night. Will Julius wake up crying? How many times? How long will it take us to get him back to sleep? How depleted will I feel in the morning?

I wake up to shouts of “mommy, mommy, mommy” and sleepwalk through the first parts of my day—pee, take my birth control pill, brew coffee, pour milk, give tickles (the best), change diapers. My thoughts start cycloning about everything I have to do. Meetings, deadlines, lunches to pack, logistics, word counts, laundry, dinner, fear, etc.

Monday was my birthday. I am 36, now. In the second half of my 30s. Grownup. I mentioned something about being a young adult and my mom replied, “You’re not a young adult anymore, you’re a regular adult.” I’m a regular adult. She’s right.

This trip is short, but when I think about what I want out of it, I think of that sumptuous space. When I think about the year ahead, I think of that longing for space.

Space can be miles and miles of big, blue sky. But it can also be a moment to breathe. A pause. A hug. A laugh.

When I’m stuck in my anxiety, there is no space. Everything is jam packed with to-dos and worries. It is a black hole, spaceless. I am on a hamster wheel. It is relentless and exhausting.

How can I give myself the gift of space this year?

I’m not usually in a cozy cabin in West Texas, although I live in a beautiful place. There are a lot of toys and half-finished art projects in baskets, but there is also the Delaware River right out the door, where I walk almost every day. There are meltdowns but there are sweet cuddles. There is the impossible weight of my own exhaustion, but there are also Julius’s golden curls, his little (less little every day) body in my arms, his chest rising and falling on my own chest.

Writers needs space, as that’s where the words live. The stories, the souls of the stories.

This year, I want to write.

I want to dream.

I hope I can take a piece of this cabin back home with me. The way it feels in my limbs. The space of this place.

I want space.

xo,

Hannah