For many, this is where the story of their life begins.
In such a room, when they had few things, life was charted to become larger, to include more. Maybe, though, there was a part of Steve Jobs that wished he had never left that room.
For me, this is where life begins, but also where it ends. I have thought carefully about what I want, and tried things. There is something so beautiful in this empty room to me. The beauty is a kind of space. There is space there. Space, like time, is interesting in that as I grow older I see that both space and time become rare commodities. Space to be.
This may seem like a counter-culture statement. But I would like to say this idea of space and simplicity is a place lived in on it’s own. It is not against anything.
Never wanting more than that room is like choosing a fork in a trail
that is narrower and also wider
that has brought me somewhere
both very old yet always new.
It’s less clear, this Way,
It’s very quiet though.
And it has taught me to not have fear.
There’s a lot of space here,
to garden in, to cook, to sleep and eat,
to make mistakes.
So much of my work is about a single idea: losing sight of myself. Learning, re-learning to not think, and not do. Yet life we are told should be about building up a self—making it larger and larger, happier and happier.
I like to rest in a darkened room
with a place to sit, music, and a cup of tea.
