My nest.

There is a hidden house on our street.  Dense foliage and a large overgrown butterfly bush keep it tucked away from the busy line of cars below. Only from my book nook in our attic loft can you see its brick turret with a tiny square window, its curtain blowing in the summer breeze.  Up here in the tree tops we are Peter Pan adventurers, finch charm bird watchers, and sneak peakers into our neighbors’ doings.

Do you remember how a winter wren kept  coming to my window in our old house to remind me of patience and perseverance?  My literal bird by bird? And I painted it for my blog (to the right) and made it my little mascot?  Well a couple of weeks ago a tiny wren got trapped in my parents’ house.  I captured it, and it sat happily staring at me, chirping on my finger, not wanting to let go, even when I took it outside.  Your nest is coming! it seemed to say.

When we first looked at this loft our real estate agent said, “Beau, this could be your office!”

And Beau said, “This will be where Bridget paints and writes.”

One half of the loft’s 450 square feet (which is the exact size of our first condo), is now our bedroom, and the other half is everything Bridget Beth.

All of my books are haphazardly stacked up the wall surrounding my big window curtained with dotted swiss.  I have a walk in closet stocked full of a sewing machine, crafting, extra clothes, costumes, my paintings, art supplies, and a crystal chandelier who is waiting to be wired.  I have two desks (I may need a third) which hold a vanity, a print making station, my computer, drawers full of journals, and my easel. And by the window, in a spot tested for perfect light, I have my favorite moss-green damask chair.

I am nestled in our tree tops when I am in it.  I can look out to the hidden brick tower through the power lines and imagine a princess locked away by an evil stepmother, or a sweet Juliet being romanced by a Romeo.  I am delighted by the thought of the seasons changing with that tower in view!  But best of all I can picture Flora, by little moth heroin, learning to fly from its brick hollow. A reminder to keep writing, because I know her story has to be told.

I must say if there was ever any doubt that this was all meant for me, from the very beginning, a sword of certainty is now set in king arthur stone. I have my very own loft studio in the trees with a view into my imagination.

I have named it The Nest.

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Painting by Arthur Rackham

 

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