Don’t linger in the doorway; come in. Pull up a chair. Make yourself comfortable. Stay a bit, or a while, or somewhere in between.

I know what you’re thinking; it’s awfully cluttered in here. You’re right. I tend to hold onto scraps of paper, journals too pretty to mar with writing, and the odd stack of books here and there that I always plan to crack open. Everything is coated with a fine layer of dust (I was never very good at housekeeping), and a cat or two will come by to swish against your legs. Don’t be surprised if one takes a liking to your lap. They do that sometimes.

But you’re not here for the cats or the dust or even the tea which is typically in some stage of steeping in the kitchen or on my desk. You’re here for me. For what I promised you. For what I proffer, freely, for you to take.

Here, you will find more than the room in which you now sit, taking it all in. You’ll find pages both worn and new, some spattered with blood and others tear-stained. You’ll find perfect right angles and flaws, crumbling artifices and unfamiliar terrains. I’ll share secrets and dreams. And if you look particularly carefully, you’ll find my heart, which will often spill out of my chest and smear its way across pages despite my begging and protesting for her to just stay put (please, no, not again). I will offer you things you didn’t know you needed as well as images you wished you hadn’t seen. Sometimes, we will cry at losses deeply felt. Or share a hug. Or both, when we really need it. Through it all, we will find humor; life is too absurd not to laugh.

I’m glad you’re here. How do you take your tea?