A Place of Riches

A Place of Riches

Dee Doriskill

The dining room table sat in front of a twenty-five foot, high window that overlooked the rolling, long garden that sloped down to a small river. The distance to the river was over a football field and a half away. The forest, that I grew to know intimately, began on the far riverbank and stretched high up the south valley wall.

It was the setting I chose as my private space to go almost every morning to write my letter to God. The chair on which I would sit was one of the upholstered dining chairs that supported me in soft comfort. The cloth that covered the rectangular table was one I made from brick red brocade that I have found at the St. Pierre fabric district in Paris. The color warmed the space and it would always feel incredible to touch the soft fabric as I sat and wrote.

In the middle of the table sat a bowl of flowers that would change depending on the season, but each new arrangement that sat there reminded me of the creative inspiration I discovered being in this magical house. Along side the flowers, I had a coaster where I would put my first cup of morning coffee.

The cup of coffee warmed me and gave me comfort. It was a creamy, brown, rich color nestled in my big, white mug painted with wild flowers. There were little bubbles around the edges left from pouring the coffee into rich, buttery-colored, thick cream I would get from our cheese lady. It was warm to hold in my hand, as I would hold the cup rather than hold the handle. I would press the cup to my face for warmth and to smell the wonderful coffee aroma. My cheek would feel the heat and my soul would feel the pure joy of this very simple delightful pleasure.

As I would sip from this vessel of delights, I would taste the rich, strong, familiar combination of French coffee and fresh cream. The treat would wake up my taste buds and warm my mouth and throat. I would always say a silent thank you for the cup of coffee and for all those that preceded it and those that would surely follow.

Once, I had surveyed the garden and the forest for the daily changes in color, checked on which birds were about and observed the day's weather, I would begin to write.

I loved the actual noise of the pen racing across the page. The vision the black lines created on white paper forming words that were spaced like dancers in a straight chorus line. One moment there was a black, clean sheet and within a few moments the page was filled with images that almost formed an artistic drawing. Yet, upon closer observation and reading, the page would transport me on a journey on which my mind and soul had taken with me.

This spot became my touchstone over the next three years. It is a place that even today, thousands of miles away, I can revisit with all my senses.