The little shed in my backyard was built for me, back when “She Sheds” were featured in magazines and Pinterest boards. I wanted to give it a cute name, something that made it sound like a sprawling estate instead of an 80 square-foot shed kit we bought from Costco. I played around with calling it “Daisy Hill” or “Western Prairie,” but none of those stuck; ultimately it settled into its unassuming identity as “The Writing Shed” or “The Thinking Hut.”
I don’t spend a lot of time out there during the coldest winter months. It’s not too great spending time in there when it’s blisteringly hot, either.
Spring and fall, these are the best seasons for hanging out in the Writing Shed. It’s nothing fancy, but it has a rug on the floor, walls painted a calming shade of blue, a set of French doors and two windows. In one window I’ve hung a crystal prism, which casts rainbows on the walls when the sun is just right. It always reminds me of hope. My grandmother had a prism just like it in her kitchen window. “That’s my hope diamond,” I remember her telling me, before I knew what the real Hope Diamond was.
Noisy things like timers or phones or bluetooth speakers aren’t allowed in there: only things like books of poetry, a soft hand-knitted shawl to toss over my shoulders, and pens that fit perfectly in my hand and release the perfect amount of black ink on creamy white paper. I bought an old-timey hourglass that silently drips black sand, in case I want to give myself a time limit without disturbing the peace with a loud timer. Procrastination is my forte, but a looming deadline does seem to get the juices flowing, even if I’m only racing against tiny grains of sand.
Over the weekend, I retrieved an unused camping cot from our garage and set it up in the corner of the shed. There it sits, and I’m surprised at how often I’ve thought of it since then: a simple cot, completely bare, with not so much as a pillow or a blanket on top. I haven’t laid upon it yet; it’s enough knowing that it is there. The promise of the cot has sparked the most delectable of notions in my head. I imagine sneaking out in the dark and throwing the windows open as wide as possible. I’ll settle gently into the middle of the crossbreeze, which will cover me like a cool cotton sheet pulled off the clothesline in the early morning.
As a child, I always wanted a treehouse. When my husband built one for our kids, I found excuses to go back there and steal a few moments inside to read and think. Having a little space, hidden away, to think and dream is as appealing to me now as it was when I was seven years old. I can’t wait until I can tiptoe into the backyard and retreat to my little shed and listen to the nighttime sounds of an owl hooting, or hear a train rattling and whistling in the far-off distance.
The shed was not built for sleep; on the contrary, it is carefully constructed as a shrine to the fine art of staying awake and paying attention. It is best suited for silence that allows ideas and creativity to swirl along the breeze and settle gently on the mind with the delicacy of butterfly wings.
The nighttime bunnies will munch away on our tulips and I will greedily gulp fresh air that is heavily laced with the perfume of the blushing magnolia tree and a lilac bush on the brink of blooming. The blossoms take on the intoxicating shape and scent of falling in love.
