The first house I bought was arguably the smallest dwelling in Benedict Canyon. I called it the “Doll House.” Not the cute kind. It was two stories with one narrow cylinder stacked on top of the other. Downstairs there was a small living room and a breakfast nook
with a wooden bench. Upstairs was the bedroom with an attached balcony that felt rickety, a narrow closet and a bathroom with a shower. The ceilings were so low, both upstairs and down, if I had been much taller, I would have grazed the top of my head when I stood up. The house needed a sign at the door: No people over
six feet beyond this point.
I wasn’t alone there. I lived with a musician boyfriend (he was obviously under six feet) who was up all night composing music. He’d be going to bed when I was getting up and heading
downstairs to make coffee. My first book, “Awakening the Healer Within,” published by Simon & Schuster, had done well. I had an idea for a second one, a novel set during the AIDS epidemic, but I didn’t know where I would write it. I’d had a large bedroom/office in the rental where I’d lived before but here, there was hardly enough room for my laptop, my printer and my notes. There was hardly enough room for me.
I told myself it was impossible to write there, I needed to wait until I could afford a larger home, but there was a catch 22. I had to write to make the money to buy that larger home. My hard earned discipline kicked in and I refused to find an excuse not to write. I put
my laptop on the table in the breakfast nook, I put the printer under the table and I spread out my notes on the bench beside me. There was no room for accoutrements. I liked having photos and crystals and other sacred objects strewn around when I worked but it didn’t matter. I had one thing to do and I did it. I wrote.
It was cramped at first but I reminded myself that even though my body felt confined, my mind could go wherever I wanted it to. I settled into the bench and that spot became my safe place. Each morning when I sat there, my mind recognized what was happening and I was able to focus. I lost time and I let my imagination flow as I put my attention on what was in front of me. Months later, when I had finished the book, I had proven to myself that I could write with consistency wherever I was. I just had to want to. I had to stop listening to the negative messages I was feeding myself and keep my eye on the prize.
I had the Doll House for close to a year when I sold it and bought a larger home that I called “The Sanctuary.” My relationship didn’t last and the entire home became my safe place. Several relationships and decades later, I still live here. I have a designated writing room with a large V-shaped glass desk, a wall of shelves filled with books, a lot of them are my books, and plenty of room for my computer, my printer and my notes. I have two altars with crystals, Buddhas, Quan Yins and photos of thevpeople I love. I’ve written bestsellers here, quirky novels, memoirs, poetry and blogs like this one. But I never forget the Doll House. I never forget that I can create safety wherever I am and do the thing I like best: Write.
As a coach, my students often find it challenging to be consistent with their writing. I know all about that. Ib tell them to book their writing time like they would a doctor’s appointment, but I also tell them about the Doll House. I suggest they create a safe place in
their homes where they feel welcome. A place that feels like an invitation to show up and do something creative. A place that allows them to feel unencumbered. I was working on a novel many years ago when I called a writer friend and said, “I’m trying to work on my book but my characters won’t let me in. It feels like they’ve put up a barrier and I can’t get through.”
“Your office is your safe place,” she said. “Stop trying to write. Just sit there and look at the beautiful things around you and breathe.”
I leaned back in my chair and I looked at a wooden Buddha I’d bought when I was in Bali. I gazed at a clear crystal selenite tower a friend had given me. I dropped into my center and focused on my breath. I felt at home as my mind stopped looping and telling me
scary stories. In a short time, I could feel the barrier dissolve and I went back to work.
Wherever I’ve lived in my adult life, whether I was with someone or I was alone, I’ve always created a safe place just for me. I’m in mine right now. I use it not only to write, but also to make difficult decisions and change my mood when I start to go downhill. I use it to clear my mind and settle my thoughts which is paramount for my mental health. I have a sense of freedom here, a sense of being home.
Maya Angelou said, “The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe space where we can go as we are and not be questioned.”
Our world is complicated and filled with difficulties. The simple act of getting up and getting through a day with some harmony can be a challenge. If we want to be courageous in this unpredictable, vast world around us, if we want to be inspired and uplifted and comforted, we need a safe space, however small it may be, to face our fears, to stay mentally healthy and find our way out the other side.
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