12x12. 144 square feet. That’s the size of the space I live in. It’s bigger than the 5-foot-diameter twig-and-leaf hut I built and lived in the winter of my senior year of college, smaller than the "mud room" of the home I grew up in. I share it with my bewildering and enchanting children, seven and three years old. Sometimes at the end of a long day I do wish that I could simply dump the children in their beds and shut the door. There are times I would gladly give up everything else in my life for a room of my own. And of course there is always the fact that one rather ill child, standing in the center of the room, can, in a single effort, projectile vomit onto EVERY ITEM THAT I OWN. But then again, living in so small a space frees me up. I don't spend a lot of time cleaning or caring for my possessions, I feel a sense of unity with the majority of the world's population, and I have such a low overhead that I don't have to work much. And right now, in the lavender light of dusk, with a candle flickering in the slight breeze from the window, bringing in the scent of lemon blossoms from the garden, I feel more content than I can remember feeling anywhere else.