ABSTRACT
I have been in my current office for 12 years, the third office I have occupied for any significant time in my more than 30 years of private practice. At the start of each August break, after I have finished seeing my last patient and tidying up the loose ends on my desk, I pause at the door and look in at the room. I spend about 40 hours in this room weekly, including scheduled times for writing. My eyes survey the couch, with its colorful Mexican blanket at the bottom half of it, and the array of small pillows of varying sizes, purchased in Barcelona, that patients can rest their heads upon, or if sitting up sometimes worry the tassels at their corners. I look at the sturdy oak credenza, with its marble top, and the extended mirror above it, that houses my postcards. I sigh as I take in the bookcases containing what has evolved into my personal, professional psychoanalytic library and smile at the photographic art, images of trips to other lands.
