Hope stood in the study at the Kilns. It was the study where C.S. Lewis worked in the house where he lived. She looked out the window that he looked out while he was trying to figure out the next word. She looked at the desk that has been set up to look like the desk he might have used.

The house has been lived in since he lived and died there. The furniture has been moved. The trees have grown, brush has been cut. The space wasn’t at first preserved, it was used by someone else.

What is most striking is that it is ordinary. There are leaves outside the window. Not lions, not literature, leaves. There are pens on the desk, sheets on the bed, ashes in the fireplace.

Discovering that writing that shaped me was written in such ordinariness is convicting. It means that I can’t go to that house and expect to write thoughtful, brilliant prose.

It’s the only second Monday of the year and I feel like the year has already evaporated. I think I want a new one. I keep wanting to get new books, whether bought or lent, to read for ideas.  I’m finding that I would be best served by thinking through the ideas I have. I keep wanting to buy blank pages, pads and moleskines and amazing calendars. I keep thinking that outside that next window or page or story will be the the best one.

But I’m thinking that rather than rushing the next year, living this one would be a good idea. Instead of always reading and buying blank paper, reflecting might be wise. And maybe saying this morning, “You are God, I am not. I’m glad you love me.”

Who knows what I might see outside my window?