The one picture I always see.

Whenever I visualize my future or imagine my ideal life, there is one picture I always see.

I sit in a sun-drenched room. Large, white-framed windows completely cover three of its walls. The fourth holds a floor-to-ceiling bookcase that expands its entire width. Hundreds of books line the shelves. Hardwood floors. A living-room-like space to my left. Two white couches and one over-sized, beautiful chair and ottoman sit in conversational arrangement. Various shades of blue for decor (which is odd, given that I am not particularly drawn to that color): pillows, fragile bottles and vases, interesting curios, occasional shocks of yellow. A luxurious, rich area rug. Simple lines. Clean. Uncluttered.

The view from the windows, straight ahead and filling my entire peripheral vision, is of the water. Sometimes it’s the Puget Sound; scenes from vistas relatively near my current home. Other times, and more recently, it’s the rocky California coast that stretches for miles along the Pacific Coast Highway. The same sun that floods the room glints across the water’s surface; it looks far more like finely-cut crystal. Nearly blinding.

And always, always a desk. Large. Expansive. Nearly the size of a door. It is white. Not smooth enamel, but worn, patina-rich, heavy, old wood. Its edges show the dark, natural grain beneath. Marks from too-long-left coffee cups, scratches from an occasional box moved across its surface, a pen repeatedly tapped in the same spot. With the exception of the laptop, there are only a few stacks of neatly-arranged papers – invoices, printed emails, articles yet to read, an expensive silver pen, and some unopened envelopes that lie ordered and straight. In the left-hand corner are three light-blue candles in sterling-silver holders. And in the far right-hand corner, nearly touching the window, a huge bouquet of tulips.

I am sitting at this desk.

And I am writing.

Not striving, doubting, or struggling. Not worried, anxious, or fearful.

Smiling, content, at home. Grateful, published, and loved.

Every once in a while, small details change. Sometimes someone else is in the room (usually an incredibly handsome and completely smitten man in a thick, white terry cloth robe – if you must know…). Or I am talking on the phone, a glass of wine in my hand. A completed manuscript sits on the desk – tied with a blue-green ribbon. A nearly all-white cat is sprawled in the sun’s heat.

But always the sun on the water. Always the desk. Always the writing.

I don’t know what to make of this; this one picture I always see. What I do know is that when I’m struggling to make sense of my day-to-day reality, this picture comes to me and I can breathe…even if only momentarily. What I do know is that when I find myself wondering if I’ll ever get my damn book written, this picture comes to me and I know the answer is “yes.”

What I do know is that something in my mind’s eye holds to this vision with a tenacious passion that will not let go.

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A few days ago I was in a consignment store and came across three nesting boxes made of old, white wood with worn edges.

I thought of how easy it would be to settle for something smaller, to compromise, to give up on the one picture I always see and create a new one, a grounded one, a more realistic one (translate: potentially less disappointing). I set the boxes down and walked away.

I want the one picture I always see, not just a small piece of it. I want my whole future – every bit of it, not just a small piece of it.

The sun on the water. The desk. The writing.

For now, I sit at a different desk, in a relatively dark room without a view. And I write.

I write what is yet unformed, yet made manifest, yet understood, yet articulated, yet thought, yet printed, yet read, yet imagined.

But no less real. Oh, and I buy tulips.

Tagged as: desk, envision, future, hope, sun, view, vision, visioning, water, writing

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