Canopy Magazine, a U-M student organization, will be publishing a book-length anthology of the tiny desk and its contents. There are hundreds and hundreds of anonymous entries. This piece was written in collaboration with other members of the Canopy team.
The project started with an idea: include everyone. Since the beginning of this semester, when the weather was pleasant, we’d randomly pick a day to bring the small desk and chair out on the Diag, arranging it with a selection of colorful books and a mug filled with pens and crayons. We’d provide a prompt and a journal. The only instructions we’d attach were “write: a short paragraph or poem” and “draw: a doodle.”
Except to check up on the desk every few hours, we didn’t monitor it. Each time, the journal had miraculously begun to fill. There was always something happening: an artist sitting in the chair, a student leafing idly through the pages, two strangers in conversation. Some would spend a good chunk of time there, while others just stopped in for a second to look, to lean in.
When we first set up the desk in January, we were worried someone would vandalize something, or steal or tell us to stop. But these things never happened. The generosity of students on campus was its moving force. “Love” was the most-written word, by far.
Prompt #1: the place that I love
At first, our team was only five or six members large, so we couldn’t watch the desk all the time. Left alone, however, the desk seemed to automatically generate care and compassion.
Some writers addressed the prompt directly, others only partly. Most writers ignored the prompt altogether, choosing instead to pen something from the heart. People began talking to each other on the page, improvising as the day went on.
“I love you,” somebody wrote.
“I love you more!” someone wrote in response.
People had written in different languages, coming from different places or walks of life.
“The place that I love was never a place. It was an infinitesimally small moment, one of warmth, comfort, and security, one with you,” penned one person. “It was the travels we made and will make. It’s the feeling I get hearing your laugh. The saddest moment was realizing I loved the place that I left.”
Prompt #2. feels like a person I’ve met, or a strange animal
On an especially windy day on North Campus, by Pierpont Commons, we noticed the first interactions between the book and the environment. One page, streaked with mud from having fallen to the ground, bore a heartwarming message:
“This notebook fell down + got picked up. So will you.”
Flipping further, the reader discovers a collage of strange animals: an eyeball with butterfly-wing makeup, adjacent to a bird out of a Wes Anderson movie. A paper plane flies over a paper crane.
Leaning against these creatures, an entry reads, “not committing might be less scary, giving up might be easier, but if you never put down roots, you will never grow.”
Prompt #3. something I want to remember
We learned many things throughout the process — like to only set up the tiny desk when it’s not insanely windy. Inevitably, even on quiet days, a gust will flutter the pages, flipping them, threatening to pull them apart.
Between pages of crayon-drawn flowers, caricatures, and a hand-turkey, a written entry stands alone, the letters swirling together in red ink. The bittersweet reflection is concluded with a small heart, drawn underneath two previous attempts that were subsequently scribbled over:
“I want to remember your words. The way you smiled, the way you laughed at my jokes. The way you were happy when we were together. But with every day that goes by, I slowly forget, but I hope I’ll always remember you.”
Prompt #4. something part of who I am
Occasionally, people would band together to complete a page of group artwork: mural-like.
“Keep your head held high,” one student wrote below a series of tiny animals: a turtle, a singing chicken. On one such page, an assortment of drawings interweaves between blocks of brief poetry.
“When it gets dark enough, you will finally be able to see the stars,” someone wrote below that.
Above this, beside a cool-looking cat, reads, “Life sometimes sucks but that’s okay!”
To which another voice responded: “I agree, but we keep moving forward.”
Prompt #5. I see a glimpse of it every day
Something about the little desk seems to bring out what people are really feeling. An ear to listen. The words come earnest, open and big-hearted when there’s no one watching.
Gathered together in the literary space of the page, people share their responses to the prompt:
“I see a glimpse of a smile and a future and a feeling I always strive for but haven’t quite arrived.”
“I see a glimpse of it every day. It’s a small spark barely bright enough but it’s enough.
“I see glimpses of futures that are or could be or will not and you are somehow part of them all.”
Prompt #6. how I’ve grown and changed
Some passersby wrote about the view from the desk — flowers, strangers sitting — and others wrote about the people they love. “I wish that I could tear my ribcage open so that our hearts could touch,” reads one.
“I have grown to be so much happier,” said another, beside them, inside a drawing of an owl.
Prompt #7. I see it differently now
While setting up the desk, we’d include some cozy decorations, like an itty-bitty ceramic brown bear (until it disappeared) and a small green candle (until it fell off the table and broke).
“Sorry about the candle!” reads one entry, above a sketch of a small tombstone. “R.I.P. 2023-2023.”
And above that: “you are a ray of sunshine.”
For this prompt, a page filled with illustrations of giddy animals and a happy person in a hat, presumably written by a very young person, in the handwriting of someone learning how to write — who would like to be a park ranger.
Prompt #8. something worth being brave for
Other times, a person will fill up a whole page with the energy of their words, inspiring others toward bravery:
“Love is worth being brave for,” or “YOU are worth being brave for!! Take the risk if it will do good! Sending love ur way!”
And on separate pages, more encouragement appears:
“It’s worth being brave for yourself and your dreams. Stay true and try your hardest.”
Or someone’s proudest moments:
“Call it bravery when I ask you to stay,” a writer begins. “Call it bravery when, at the end of the night, I let you put your arms around me, and we go to sleep together, and in the morning we open the blinds and let the light come in. This, itself, is a heroic feat.”
Prompt #9. which can only exist in this moment
For this prompt, the journal and its contents, were an answer in itself. Every entry, written in response to another, was something that could only exist then — in its own way.
In this moment: overflowing love.
“Things never really belong to us BUT that’s okay. I loved getting to hold that piece of time.”
“I’ve seen you around,” came a response. “I love admiring you.”
“The strongest trees still sway,” another said.
“Sometimes, you’re tired and hungry and sad,” someone chimed in. “Then you see your friend’s face at the door. Find your people. They make life brighter.”
Prompt #10. which I hope to witness again
We learned a lot from the little desk. Managing the journals and providing this space showed how caring — and deserving of care — everyone and everything is. Here I am, the journal seems to say. Here we are. You are loved. I love you.
For an ending note, we’ll let the words speak for themselves: “I hope to witness a world where we are one, where love can flourish and the earth can heal. Although unfortunately I can’t say that I’d witness this again … I believe that I’ve seen glimpses of it in the smiles and actions of many around me. It is a beautiful thing.”
Statement Correspondent Steve Liu can be reached at liuste@umich.edu.