A few weeks ago, while I was in town, I drove myself to IKEA to find a small desk. Nothing fancy, or expensive. Easy to put together. Simple.

I brought it home and put the box on the guest bed, in the room I thought it might fit and would provide the space I longed for. Then something pulled me away, as life often does. My new project would have to wait. And that’s okay. I wasn’t in any rush. I wanted to be intentional about each step.

I made several attempts to start, none of which were successful. One time it just felt too big. Another time I couldn’t find a hammer. Another, I thought, maybe not, this is silly. And then I found the hammer and I got over my anxieties and everyone else was busy. I built a desk, as much as you can say you built a desk that was bought basically made. It was more like a puzzle. I’m still proud of myself for it. I did the thing.

And then I didn’t know where to put it. In the corner by the bed? Next to the bookshelf? Hidden in the closet, out of the way, but maybe leading to Narnia anyway? No, I want to look out the window. It was a hard decision. One I’m still not sure is “right.” But I made a decision and said, “if I hate it, I can always move it later.”

Weeks passed. Life kept happening. My anxiety rolled in waves. I kept working. And then there was breathing room. A cold quiet day in November. Today.

Yesterday was a day for lazy binge watching Elementary and finishing some books because I’m apparently behind in my reading goal for the year.

Today though, is about chores and tasks, holiday prep. I had put this specific task on my list and it felt like the right time.

I collected all my journals: mostly empty, but some half heartedly scattered with thoughts. All the prompt books I’ve bought in a misguided attempt to spark creativity, too. I put them on a shelf. Next to them I placed the small boom box I took from my parent’s house a year ago. I dug out my CD collection too. So many burned albums from iTunes. Mixed CDs from college summers when everything was possible. I feel my youth ebb through the speakers now, and it feels equally light and heavy all at once.

I moved a lamp off the bedside table and onto the desk. I placed candles my best friend gave me at the beginning of October next to a bookend sculpture my sisters gifted me when I graduated with my masters last year.

Index cards, sticky notes, and notecards sit in the single drawer, for notes and tactile needs. I had to pull my office chair from the garage storage. The blanket my grandmother crocheted for me before she passed lays across the back of the chair.

I made tea and lit the candle and set an intention. To write. To feel.

I don’t remember exactly when I started writing. I’m sure there are remnants of my earliest attempts in boxes of my school memorabilia. There are journals somewhere in the attic filled with mediocre poetry where I professed to love boys who barely noticed me and soliloquized about my adolescent loneliness. There are seeds hidden in there of my anxiety and fear. It might hurt too much to sift through any of it now. But it’s there. It still tugs at me. I can’t get rid of it.

As high school flowed into college, writing became a lifeline that I clung to. I won’t lie that some of it is inexplicably entwined with two of my deepest heartaches and heartbreaks—boys who bled through my poetry seamlessly. They were also my first real audiences.

Love and poetry sometimes feel like the same thing to me.

My longest flow of creative expression occurred during and a few years after college. Writing kept me afloat through what I can only describe as a quarter life crisis. After college, I moved back home with my parents. I had some part time employment that allowed me to tread water but I was definitely depressed. And my anxiety claimed center stage as I had my first panic attack in a dark movie theater as the credits rolled.

After getting into therapy I was able to get a job and officially arrive at adulthood. Much to my dismay, my anxiety and depression didn’t just immediately disappear. They did loosen their grip on me though, for a time. But writing did too. I didn’t stop writing completely but the frequency decreased. It became harder to put my feelings into words. It became more complex and exhausting to try to tell my truth.

I remember my therapist asking me if I wanted to get better. I told her I was afraid to, because if I was better maybe then I wouldn’t be able to write anything anymore. I know that’s not true now. My art is not caused by my mental health. It was the truth at the time though.

There are so many reasons for me to write. Some are clear and sturdy. Others are hiding, peaking out to see if the coast is clear. I’m not sure I know exactly what is pulling me to write now, but I’m trusting the feeling.

So I built this desk I’m sitting at, with a now empty cup of tea. Dido is playing from a mixed CD I made in 2009. The candle light is flickering. My phone is face down and I’m writing. And that’s all I want in this moment.

I don’t know what this will be, but it’s something and for the first time in a long time I’m excited to go exploring.

Let’s do the thing.