My office is wonderful, and my friends helped me to build it, getting the new desk in. I hung my two prints of Diana the Huntress in there, both of which my mother has given me over the years, and one of which is in a frame which dates back three generations in my dad's family, and my mom restored when I was a kid.
The library is clean and finished and comfortable - the very narrow old desk/vanity/dresser now the sideboard in there, between couch and a long, low bookshelf built by my dad. (Hidden in the drawers of the old desk, which is facing back-side out, drawers to the wall, are copies of research and early, early, EARLY writing on The Ax and the Vase. I didn't want to trash or recycle them, but I don't care to see them either!)
The house is clean, much laundry is done, and supper is on the beautiful new stove.
Yet this weekend has been another of those times where I witness myself useless to be of practical use to those I love. I rage against this impotence, I strategize and bargain and beg G-d *and* those I even theoretically could help - and find myself blessed and inert, comfortably fruitless.
And with a writing desk I may forever associate with the piece of scary family news I got the hour before it came in the house.
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