I sit within what we knowingly refer to as our office -- it's really just a glorified computer room, formerly a small third bedroom on the upper floor. The work surface is generously spacious, with much space freed up by a fine, new flatscreen monitor; although spacious, this surface is, as is its wont, cluttered with books, spiral notebooks, and post-it notes (stuck to nothing). To my right is a wall unit filled to capacity with (mostly) books. The space nearest at hand, and at eye level, has the references most used in offline wwftd research. Just below that is a rack of software CDs. Also here is a desk calendar, on which The Naked OrganistŠ proclaims the last day of the year 2005, and a New Moon rising.

When I glance up over the printer, I can see out through a door that is halfway ajar into our upstairs sunroom -- windows all around, which gives me a westerly view of our snow-trimmed maple and, through its otherwise bare branches, the back of the large old house that obstructs any sight of Lake Harriet, just beyond the Rose Garden.

Just over my left shoulder is the only window in the office, which looks out on nothing but the house next door; but which lets in some needed light on these short winter days. Behind me is a fold-away antique desk and, in the corner, my closet. The monsters are strangely subdued today.