I have the perfect writing space in my new house. Judging by the ochre and sky-blue blades of the ceiling fan, and the room's size, it most likely belonged to a child. It's tiny, and right now, crowded with boxes of books that I have yet to unpack. My desk is pushed against a windowless wall -- just the blank page to look at, and the slow sense of relief that washes over me as I find the words to fill it.
To my right, there's a small window just below the ceiling that looks out into the backyard. It's just high enough to let the daylight in. As I type this, I can see the sun spilling over the leaves of an oak tree, one of its younger limbs reaching toward daylight as it cascades over the roof.
The tree cover of our house and yard keeps the air heavy with humidity. That moisture is what allowed the yard to get so lush and unruly. It has created a lot of work for me. But I take comfort in that. This house is a place of growth.