On any given day, I can cross the road in front of our house and travel by bus for ten miles or so to my studio, located in the small fishing town of Kirkcudbright, here in South West Scotland.
The journey is predictably and reassuringly familiar, promising a non-judgemental welcome as my square key turns in the lock and reveals ever present delights within.
Here I am.
Breathe internal calming sigh.
Light, smells, materials demanding touching.
Work still in progress from last encounters.
Then I declare there is no space and there must ensue ordering, sorting, rebuilding of rust-printed paper piles, sweeping and rearranging.
Reasoned activity offers fresh breathing rhythms.
There will be time to catch ideas and help them settle before the muddling happens again.
And then there’s my chair to cocoon me offering yet more time - “to sleep, perchance to dream”.
And I do sleep sometimes - delicious permitted opportunism for afternoon naps wrapped in my knitted studio blanket.
And dreaming too...
Comfort that’s all.