The threshold

There’s a place I go, though not always easily.

I call it the Night Wing. Not the website—though that’s what I’ve built to house it—but the thing beneath. The place behind the curtain.

It’s not real, and it’s not metaphor either. It’s a wing of a house I don’t live in, but which lives in me. I have to walk to it. Sometimes I’m carrying the weight of a whole day on my back, sometimes just a quiet ache of wanting more time for myself. Or for my family to enjoy our stories.

I arrive at the threshold.

There are red velvet curtains. Heavy. They don’t swing aside with any kind of magic flourish. I have to part them with both hands. And every time—every single time—I hesitate. Just for a breath. It’s my place, but still I pause. What if this time I don’t belong? What if what’s on the other side isn’t friendly?

And then I muster the courage. Because I must. The curtain falls behind me.

It’s quiet inside, but not silent. There’s the sound of light rain, or evening settling. Books are open on the table. Notebooks. Brushes in jars. A few things are glowing. The cats are always here—Ginger Bear, Dragon, Mouse—though I never see them arrive. They know the way.

Here, I don’t have to explain why something matters before I make it. Here, I’m not trying to be useful. I’m not parenting, or pleasing, or proving. I’m just playing with ideas and making things. Sometimes slowly. Sometimes with my whole heart.

I built the Night Wing for this. Not just as a place to work, but as a way to remember that I still can. That even when the rest of life is crowded and good and loud with love, I still need somewhere else to go. Somewhere a little stranger. A little quieter. A little more mine.

I’ve thought about inviting people in. And I will, in some ways. Through what I created. Through the pages and the posts and the books that make their way into the world. But the space itself? This soft, sharp, velvet-lined wing of the house? That stays just for me.