I’m living—more like squatting—in a big old house with my stuff all piled around and old sawdust and debris all over the floor when a group of friends comes in—I try to keep them out, embarrassed by the state of things, but I can’t be outright rude—and bit by bit they start sorting things out for me—maybe it begins by my asking for their help in hanging a large framed picture—and then they all get into the project and set to work transforming my space. a couple of times I begin to disagree with their placement of things but then see their logic, which makes far more sense than I’d realized at first and surrender to the process. the very best, most delicious part is my tall friend from college who has returned from travels prepared to love me for real and heading up this transformation crew—he sets to work up on the bedroom, hanging vermilion and gold and vivid red tapestries around and over the bed until it resembles a jewel-toned cocoon in a bright room with large, wide-open windows, sunlight streaming in—and I discover another little room I didn’t know existed up some steps: a square, mission-style turret space with windows all around, glowing wood floors and window frames, and I think, here is my study, it’s perfect—it had been the daughter’s room, my sister’s friend’s, and some of her things are still there—the deal is that I’ll look after them until she can come pick them up—and I can easily work around the stuff for the great pleasure of using this space where I feel I belong.