It’s time for another anticipated but unpunctual postmortem gathering a patchwork of thoughts, images, and excerpts from previous posts about the icehouse rehab. Today I turn to my sanctum sanctorum, the lofty garret where I am standing at present rocking gently as I type, periodically catching myself gazing at Lake Champlain laughing beyond yon linden tree beneath which two hammock chairs pirouette in the breeze.
I imagined a small, simple perch above the mostly open cathedral ceilinged main room in the icehouse. Removed from view and through-traffic so that I might feel free to stack and draft and create unselfconsciously. Something like this.
The walnut butcher block topped desk that my brother built a little over two decades ago would serve as focal point and command control. Behind the desk a morning view looking east at the lake through linden, ash, ginkgo, and maples. To the west, a simple railing overlooking the interior of the icehouse and a mostly porous (maximum fenestration) west elevation revealing a deck, a courtyard, flower gardens, vegetable gardens, orchard, meadows, forests, and sunsets into the Boquet Mountains.
Plenty of bookshelves and cupboards along my knee walls. Efficient storage. Easy access. A utilitarian space for working, writing, researching, editing, creating, and dreaming. A sitting-standing desk, a balance board for standing and an ergonomic “wobble stool” for posture-improving while sitting. A minimalist but comfortable and well scaled recliner with ottoman for reading, lengthy phone calls, and an occasional nap. Good lighting. Good speakers. Tranquility. Quiet.
My lofty garrett started as a pipe-dream, metamorphosed into a buildable plan, transformed from construction drawings into three dimensional reality by way of collaborative hard work, and now nurtures my productivity and focus comfortably, beautifully all day long. Sunup. To. Sundown.
I’m literally in a perfect spot, gloriously garretted in the icehouse loft, massaging thoughts into words into this blog post with Carley snoring contentedly on a sheepskin rug nearby. (Source: Enough Words… Action)
Heather Maxey told me recently that she sometimes wonders where I am when composing a post. She knows our property well, familiar with Rosslyn’s many distinct environments, so she said that it’s often tempting to try and guess. The truth is, these posts are born all over the property. And often, far from Rosslyn. Seeds planted spontaneously from often ephemeral inspiration. An experience, a memory, an echo. But posts rarely are completed in the place where they’re inspired. I lay them aside and then return to them, often many times over weeks or months. Sometimes over years.inc
Wherever, whenever each post is drafted into existence, since 2023 many posts evolve in the lofty garret of Rosslyn’s icehouse. My study. My studio. My sanctum sanctorum, the overlooking lake and lawns, gardens and orchard. From dawn to dusk in the hideaway I imagined for years.
What do you think?