I'm sitting at a desk made of a stout door blank. A cup of tea sits on a tacky magazine. A hammer sleeps on a shelf. The stereo plays whatever song the ipod spits out next. Just beyond the windows, a golden hummingbird hunts for flowers and plants silently roar into spring.When I shut the door, I step into a vault, comfortable chamber sealing me from the noises I didn't know I heard - the cars, the chattering neighbors swapping tales on a stoop, lawn mowers, renovations, and everything else that empties the silence. It's so very quiet. But the quiet isn't in the studio, it's in my head. For the first time in a year, I'm not pondering a point of construction, researching materials and vendors, or fighting my ponderous indecision on some detail that will live on well past our ownership of this property. There are plenty of details to wrap up - trim, siding, and so on - but for the real intent of this structure, I am done. It's now so very quiet.

It's been weeks since we helped the mighty Burke get the rock up on the wall. Wanting the big walls to be smoother than any sane person would care, I became one with the mud, feathering out each and every seam as far as I could manage. Never ever ever underestimate how long it will take or how impossible it will be for the less experienced hand to achieve perfection. At some point I collapsed, tried to cough up an itchy lung and was swallowed by the dust. It was time to paint and move in.

It seems almost preposterous that all this work, all this angst was over what in the end is two simple rooms. I can look at any piece and tell you a story of decisions and choices - some even good. These nearly 450 square feet are smaller than many garages, smaller than those ignored rooms in many people's homes. But, as repeated elsewhere, for us these rooms are life changing. I don't know that the sternly grinning Martha Stewart or the adherents of the ever preposterous Feng Shui would approve of the space, but I do. The space is warm, it is welcoming, it is where I will spend the bulk of my waking time in the coming years.

I'm nearly finished moving in. I open the door, breathe in the quiet, and almost tremble as I imagine the possibilities. Now if someone would just clean my neglected brushes, maybe I'll paint something.

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