From bistro table to bird’s nest. Huh!?

I’ve always loved high places.

That’s high places, I said, not being high and who has the time to listen to those lurid stories of my past anyhow?

Thus it is with relief and pleasure that I announce I have a desk. The piece of plywood that served as one prior has been set aside, reserved for writing from a couch or easy chair.

Well, not a desk by the preferred definition: a table, frame or case with a sloping or horizontal surface especially for writing and reading and often with drawers, compartments and pigeonholes.

Still, it’s a table at which to pour out my thoughts by pen-turned-keyboard and that’s important. The table, I mean {insert reminder of the importance of writing}.

A table unused and snagged from work with their permission. Half my closet now sits dismantled since the table's no longer serving as spiffy shelving, but that’s easily remedied with boxes and bricks. When it comes to storage systems that are mobile and temporary, I’m hard to top in resourcefulness and inventiveness, traits developed over the life's course of moving.

It’s a table, specifically a bistro or pub table so tall and skinny and of ideal size in these tight quarters. And, as luck had it, there was a tall chair at the ready, from the roommate's large square bistro table in the dining room.

Cushion at the back, a wool throw over the cool wood seat, a big pouffy bag of foam as a footrest to support a tender back and the few simple treasures I love and need at my writing table and I’m back in business.

So how’d I get from treetops to table? Well, I’m sitting at a high table in a high chair that affords a view — with a stretch of the imagination.

Of course the view is nothing that’d inspire the readers of Better Homes & Gardens — except possibly to adopt me as a charity case and send money to move — but that’s not the point. Having a bird’s-eye view is.

But I’ve always been like that. My greatest and sole source of solace and safety at the property of my childhood were treetops, in particular one giant bushy pepper tree, in which I'd climb to the highest branch that could hold human weight and sit and be. For my sister, it was tucked beneath the bushes. Not even our bedrooms were safe since our father would come barging in through the closed door raging to dish out whatever punishment we deserved for whatever crime we’d committed.

And since I was particularly rebellious, there was an abundance of barging and door-slamming. And my father was not happy when eventually the frame split off the wall, requiring him to repair it. I seem to recount a lesson of standing and shutting the door quietly like 100 times. I got off easy on that one.

Anyhow, high places, where the birds rest or nest, are still where I feel safe, secluded and, strangely, myself, even if it's a bistro table.

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