Six years ago, I moved my office to my child’s empty bedroom upstairs. I painted a dusty pink matte over the former Cars-themed room, which was complete with a racing stripe. I traded out the dresser and bed for a pair of desks – one for work and one for writing. I kept his white bookshelf. I replaced Dr. Seuss with “Writing Down the Bones” and “On Writing.” Books of poetry and books of devotions fill another shelf with my bible and rosaries. Stacks of composition notebooks live in oversized paper boxes.

It is a sacred space that I created to take a break from the busyness of the family home. When football roars from the smart screen in the heart of the home, I am listening to instrumental hymns a floor above.

I’m writing every day again. Honest to goodness creative writing where I string together considered series of words. It fits like a glove, this holy practice of pen to page. Writing fills me with hope. It bolsters me with confidence. It calms me with peace. Writing is my true north.

In addition to writing, I’m curating my past works. The drawers and computer file folders are chock full of works in progress. Some of them I read and immediately move to the trash. It’s freeing to let go of the clutter of drafts that were always meant to only be part of the process rather than finished product. Then there are those pieces that are worth preserving and finishing. So I sort, and I curate and I am pretty certain there are two collections there, one of short stories and a second one of poetry. More to come as I continue to spend time in the quiet space, this humble room of my own full of only objects that bring me joy.