A silver-colored tin sits on my bookcase. I bought it many years ago from a chic home interiors boutique in one of Tokyo’s trendier shopping streets.
At that time my interest in personal development, coaching and mentoring was deep. The fascination remains to some extent although those unquenchable fires I lit around goal setting and growth have died down with the passage of time and mortality’s unmissable limitations.
And what of my tin these days? Well, inside it I continue to keep affirmations, inspiring quotes and various images of health, wealth and happiness. The crassest of these get pruned out every few years but there the tin remains, propped up on either side by spiral bound writing books and archived files and folders.
Pressing down from above is a plastic file box containing, I think, financial documents and sundry slips of paper about earthquake insurance payments, medical receipts and a bunch of stuff I care not for at this present moment. And on top of that are several sets of 3 x 5 index cards and notebooks awaiting their call to duty.
I’m using one of those notebooks to draft this post while sitting in my favorite armchair. The one with the armrests. The one we both regret buying now because it’s too heavy to use in our dining area on a daily basis.
But I found a practical home for it here in my humble writing cave. And now it’s become the perfect seat for a writer seeking solitude from the connected world, armed only with his notebook and a turquoise-colored Paper Mate InkJoy pen.
How could I have missed the obvious? This chair is where I love to sit and read and write. My white and wide study desk, home to a macbook bristling with writing apps and broadband firepower, can remain at ease while the maverick, the muse, does her thing.
Just thoughts and words.
That’s all it takes.
That’s all I ever needed.