I have a lovely desk. It’s L-shaped, with a window facing the rising sun. It has a couple of drawers for my staples and files. It’s wide enough for my computer and printer. One end holds the “baby stuff” basket just so.

It’s a perfect desk really.

Unless you’re me.

You see, I’m a kitchen table kind of girl. Though there’s no rational reason for it, I find myself more often sitting in the kitchen at one of the tables. Sometimes it’s the butcher block “everyday” table that’s tucked between the stove and sink, the table where we paint, the flat spot where I make lunches, the home of meal preparation and baking with Babby. It’s the table that’s often home to my morning and evening prayer tea time and where I find myself settling in when I have the right kind of conversation partner – on the phone, in person, or online.

It’s where I sit to relax while my brain whirs along. It’s where I fold most of the laundry.

I guess it’s not so surprising that it’s also where I write.

Sometimes I’m writing thank you notes or little notes to Bob and other times my laptop is glowing from one end – the power cord snaked over the George Foreman – while a cup of coffee perches at the opposite end (on a saucer, of course). The table is an old friend and though it wasn’t there all those years ago, it could have been – when I did my homework, when I finished major projects, when I scapbooked (the old-fashioned non-computer way), when I composed masterwork papers for my Master’s, when I put stamps on birth announcements and baptism invitations.

The kitchen table has long played a leading role in my life and though I may wander off to a new chair or desk for a while, it stays confidently in the kitchen, knowing I’ll be back.