Walk softly down the stairs into my cellar; don’t mind the paint splattered steps if they creak a bit. They’ve been here a long time, you know, since the house was first built. Longer than I have. The carpet is old and faded-probably been here as long as the stairs-but feel it’s softness beneath your feet. Watch your step; this is a dangerous area. The floor is scattered with scraps of cloth and bits of metal; I don’t drop needles, but look out anyway. You never know what you’ll find hidden under ribbon and duct tape roses.

Turn left at the bottom of the stairs, and you’ll see a shelf, full of paper and books. There are a few other things scattered among the construction paper: the bill for a play I was in once; a bag of pine cones; a quartet of stuffed animal horses, with stiff tails and beady eyes. They look down over the room stubbornly as if to say You may have outgrown us, but that doesn’t mean we’re leaving. Next to that, on a desk that’s filled with thread and pins, is an old computer. We barely ever use it anymore. The internet connection upstairs is faster. But sometimes I come down to write, when I just need to be alone for a little while.

There are paints scattered on the same table as the computer, and paintbrushes on nearby shelves. The bristles are tinted red and blue from childish, careless washing. Half-finished projects lie on a nearby cluttered table, dominated by a sewing machine. The machine is temperamental at best. It displays the talent to know when I am using it, and refuses to sew a straight stitch for me. It’s an old enemy; I have fought battles over snarled thread and torn cloth with it. But at the same time, it’s something I wouldn’t want to give up; old enemies often seem closer than old friends, made familiar by frustration. Clay figurines lie in small piles on the floor, halfway through being sorted by some characteristic that even I’ve forgotten. Keeping them company is a plastic rocking horse. It once belonged to my sister; but she is leaving for college next year, and so it has been banished to the lowest depths of our house.

Against the wall farthest from the stairs, there is a table and another shelf. They are filled with junk-trash, but priceless trash to me. Scraps of metal and screws and wire; clumps of clay and half-finished figurines. Collected over years of searchings and savings, these things can be traced back to when I thought smooth stones were priceless, and shiny screws were treasure. There is an old rocking chair with a spot cleared on the table in front of it-just enough space to work on. A vise, used for opening tough bottles and painting delicate items, is screwed onto the armrest. A forgotten lamp stands proudly over all of this, providing feeble but sufficient light.

This is where I’ve spent countless hours over the past years of my life-sculpting, painting, molding, creating. Living. It is the place I know best in the world, the place I am most comfortable in. It’s like an old plaid shirt - a little grungy, but so comfortable that it just doesn’t matter.