My garden office isn’t big. It isn’t extravagant. But it’s mine, and it suits me just fine.
While I’m working, I feel blessed that I am not confined to a cubicle, that I am free to watch scrub jays flit from tree to tree. Even though I know from their shriek, shriek, shriek they are annoyed that I’ve been glued to my computer and have forgotten to toss their peanuts under the blue oak, I still find them intriguing and precious.
I listen to huge, black shiny bumble bees busying themselves with the Salvia clevelandii that fills my side of the street with a pungent, woodsy fragrance. The warm early morning breeze — that without native grasses and leaves to move through would be silent — sings a sweet rustling song.
As I sit in my five dollar, yard sale, vintage garden chair with my feet propped up, I am content. My garden office is a place where my mind is free to open, allowing creative thoughts to run as wild as the landscape stretching from the toes of my bare feet.