The ethereal northern lights hypnotize me. I sit here in Norway, reveling in the deep greens of the valleys marked by perfectly spaced blue of small lakes. The snow-covered mountain peaks paint a majestic background to the humble red barn and white farmhouse set far below. Averting my gaze slightly, I marvel at the green grass, the bright bougainvillea, and the regal three-story queen palms.
Wait, palms in Norway? Oh yes. I am in my writing shed, dubbed Norway by my friend Nancy, who also supplied me with photos of that beautiful land. The green grass, bougainvillea, and palms are in my backyard, in direct sight of my shed.
I love this space. I reserve it for writing, reading, or related activities. Everyone acknowledges it is my space, to be entered only with permission. Even Luna refuses to venture inside.
I unlock the door and immediately relax. What is it about a room of your own? I search my mental encyclopedia of Jungian psychology; the answer must be there. This plot of 64 square feet acts as my Ego, protecting my Self from adverse risks. I am cocooned in protection.
Whatever. The challenges of sharing a home with two other generations and their Life burdens are safely ensconced in the edifice less than 20 feet away. I am here if needed, but they need to seek me out. I don’t need a puffer jacket to keep me warm nor do I need to shovel snow. I like this Norway.
