Allow me to introduce another sort of www—no dot about it—this room is a womb for writing. It’s like a womb, obviously because of the creative factor. The incubation and gestation process. A work of love that grows page by page, not in darkness (though the lights are low, and at times a candle is lit), but privately, hidden from view and unseen by others, except maybe for the occasional excerpt, the sneak preview which might be likened to a sonogram.
But it’s really the noise of the fan droning in the window all year long that made me think of a womb. No matter the season or temperature outside, the fan stays in the window, blowing the air in or out. I need the air circulating, but even more, I need the steady sound of a motor, drowning out other sounds and never altering its pitch. A motor, giving me the sense I’m traveling, that I’m on a journey. Maybe a ship crossing the high seas…or maybe a spaceship zooming to the stars or the moon… Or maybe I like the steady droning sound because it reminds me of the womb.
Long ago I was in one of those consciousness-raising groups, and one night, feeling unusually courageous, I stood up and told the group what I had felt for a long time but never shared with anyone. I pointed up to the corner of the ceiling (though everyone knew where I was really pointing to!) and said, “I want to go back there.” And the teacher/leader/guru said, (disparagingly I thought) “Oh, you just want to be back in the womb.”
Whatever. It doesn’t matter now. Because now I have created my own tree-house, womb, spaceship, writing room that was originally built as the maid’s room back in the early 1900s. It’s located behind the kitchen, that other place in the home known for cooking things up. And a servant’s room it remains, as long I continue to serve my manuscript, attending to it daily, never breaking my resolve to finish it. Because in this work, I am also a servant, serving my Higher Self.