If you think of life as a game of tag, everyone should have a home base.
Mine is a tiny office on the second floor of my house. It’s not much, but it’s so cozy and reassuring. I have a silver Hiram Scott College mug full of sharpened yellow pencils. Next to that is a stack of lined, yellow paper just daring me to scratch out a creative idea or two. I have an old, chipped desk lamp that only provides a dim and narrow beam of yellow light. It’s all I need.
Next to my desk is a tiny bookshelf. My mother’s old Webster’s Dictionary is lodged between a book of business tips by Peter Drucker and a tattered biography of John Adams, full of blue sticky tabs that mark episodes of his life I find courageous and inspiring.
The floor is wooden. It creaks just enough to let me know I’m on home base.
In my life’s game of tag, I still get uptight and lonely at times. People’s expectations of me are often beyond what I think I can deliver. Some social and business encounters frighten me.
But each evening I can touch my home base. And everything is okay.