A Room of My Own

For first time in years I am enjoying Christmas. It is neither painful nor lonesome nor a disquieting time, but a perfect blend of magic, warmth and peace. One of the best gifts of this year has been my ministudio. I moved here on November 15, when my former life was over and a new one started to spread before me despite my wails and my stubborn rejection. A friend invited to spend a few days at her condo. After a couple of days in a huge and comfortable apartment with a splendid view of the city, I missed my little place. When I came back, I saw this ministudio with different eyes. There was beauty here, there was love. The surroundings were neither dreary nor monotonous, but magnificent. And, suddenly this tiny thing with its coldness and inconveniences became my home, the thing I most needed and the place where I wanted to be. Unconsciously attached to it, I was afraid of embracing it. Acceptance meant turning away from my old house, the one I recently lost. Now I gaze at my studio with tenderness and gratitude. It is just a room, but it is of my own. A room of freedom and words, a shelter from wintry attitudes, a cozy abode to await a life of my own, where only my decisions and mistakes carry weight.

«A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction. » Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own.


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