My bedroom--the one ounce of space I have left to me, personally, in my little world and in which I jealously guard my favorite books and yarn skeins--is arranged so as to be the most restful place I can manage to construct for myself, and for my cat.
This last clause means that in addition to my bed (my great grandmother’s wedding present from my great grandfather) and little rocking chair (thrift store!), my antique cupboard and ancient glass-front bookshelves (saved from garage sales and garbage dumps), there are always yarn balls that have mysteriously escaped from their basket and gone running across the room. Frayed and slightly gummed bits of ribbon and string lay gasping their last on the hardwood. Sometimes feathers find their way in, again very mysteriously, and float about the room with the draft. And there is usually a fuzzy ball of warm affection waiting to curl up on my lap, or sit on my shoulder, or settle herself very compactly in a balancing act on top of my feet.