After over a month of travel, nothing feels better than to be back home, back in my favorite chair. Its an overstuffed, burned orange leather chair that I have moved with me from Nebraska, to Charlotte, and now to our forever home, Tacoma. It is my special place in what I hope is the last home I ever live in. It is more than a piece of furniture; it is symbol and embodiment of so much that I love. My time alone writing, my family close by, a career that I usually love, but am always bewildered by. My dog in my lap, the memories of my dogs no longer with me.
In this chair, I write and laugh, I write and think, I write and cry.
For ten years in this chair, I have dreamed of possibilities through writing; I have lived a life through writing. I have had success and failures, projects come to fruition, and those that have wilted on the vine. I have had friends die, and have made new friends, and have moved from being a young man to being a very middle aged man.
And through it all, a constant, this chair, my fingers moving across the keys, the mystery of the word.