A few weeks ago, we moved the old, oak writing desk upstairs to our bedroom. It’s been a migrating piece of furniture since we moved here three years ago. We’ve got 1800 square feet, occupied by five adults, and I’m always fidgeting around with the space – trying to make better use of it, yes, but also trying to find a place of my own.

To write.

Do all writers have a vision of their writing space? Some sort of ideal?

Mine’s a little rustic and romantic, the floor piled high with towers of books, a desk with an oldish swing arm lamp, and maybe a chair to sink in.

Moving the desk to our bedroom is a step toward some privacy, some quiet, a place to retreat when the downstairs living gets loud or the space too close.

In truth, there’s only been a wee bit of writing done here so far. As a large, flat surface, it’s been ideal for stacking piles of clean laundry, craft projects, and wrapping Christmas presents.

It takes time for a space – or a dream – to evolve. So I am patient.

I coax myself into believing and doing. It’s a private conversation I’ve had often. Still, Christmas has now come and gone and this morning is silent. The desk is clear and newly dusted.

If I’m lucky, some sun will dapple my pages each morning. The light, I suspect, will help me find the right words.

I’ve even cleaned out each of the three drawers, reclaiming these small pieces of real estate for my pens. Paper. Journals. Bits and scraps of memory too small to keep anywhere else.

Moving the bills, the checkbook, stamps, and envelopes downstairs and out of the desk changed its vibe from work-a-day responsibility to some sort of curved and claw-footed work of art.

There’s creativity waiting in this desk.

It’s as clearly mine as if I’d carved my name in the smooth oak wood.

Well then, no more excuses.

Time to write.

I’ve been a teacher this week. A wife. A mother. A daughter, sister, and friend. I’ve also been an insurance claim reviewer, a bill payer, and some sort of  unpaid hybrid of an Uber driver and chauffeur. I’ve been both problem solver and whiner. The very best of me and only a shadow of what I should be.

So it’s been a regular week.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how I choose to spend my time. In the scheduled blocks of my day, much of my time is spoken for, but what I’m becoming gradually more aware of is the wide open and unspoken for spaces in the daybook.

So far this season, I’ve not dropped any balls, but I sure do get tired of juggling. Ask anyone what I complain about most and, presidential election aside, they’d likely say my consistent go-to is lack of time. I rush and stress and hurry and power walk through the hallways of my day until the sun sets, and it’s time for David Muir on World News Tonight.

From Friday’s perspective, I look back over the week and see how far I’ve walked to make it to this point in time. What I’m questioning, however, is not how far I’ve traveled but rather, how much I remember about the journey. What stands out as the moment to be most savored? In all seven days from one Friday to the next, what felt most important?

There’s a bit of rain outside this morning, and it’s peppering my thoughts,  We’re in the midst of a severe drought, so the rain is welcome. I’ve been so worried about our well. I hear the splash and splat, the growing and then easing of intensity, the gathering water spilling from the roof and trees,  I’m thinking about the leaves. How many will hang on though the storm and how many will fall?

It’s Friday morning. And today, I’ll be a teacher. A wife, mother, daughter, sister, and friend. But I’ll also be a woman who listens to the sound of rain. A woman who thoughtfully chooses how to live better in those wide, open spaces. I’ll be a slow breather, a daydreamer, and a watcher of leaves.

And I hope someone will ask me about the moment most savored. Because today, I’ll know how to answer.