“Introverts are offered keys to private gardens full of riches. To possess such a key is to tumble like Alice down her rabbit hole.”
― Susan Cain
Since we arrived in Zollikon, I have a room of my own. A room with a view, yes, but more importantly: a room with a door.
In Paris, I wrote at a narrow desk in the bedroom, whereas D wrote at the dinner table downstairs. Whenever he needed to use the bathroom, he would enter my realm. Whenever I wanted to use the kitchen or leave the house, I would break his concentration. We lived and worked like this for years, trying to be considerate yet failing nonetheless. We were embarrassed when we disturbed each other, irritated when disturbed. We escaped into libraries, parks, and cafés, where we growled at talkers.
Space makes a difference. We have two bedrooms here. Two bathrooms, a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, a long corridor. We have space to live together and be apart. At night we dance, sliding over the parquet floors on our socks.
We also have windows, so many that I don’t feel cooped up, even when the incessant rain keeps me inside. I can broaden my horizon while confining myself to my desk. It’s a beautiful thing to watch the twilight descend over the lake.
The weather people predict snow for tomorrow. I predict that when I wake up in the early morning to the dimness of yet another March dawn, I’m going to get a lot of writing done.