This past weekend, I chased the rust-colored sunset across Iowa. Trees cast their silhouetted skeletons, reminding me of the lakeside sunrise photos I have admired from a distance.
Yesterday, I laid my plan book and roster across the top of my desk. Pages and pencilings stayed awake all night, woke me once, and waited at arm’s length until I joined them this morning.
This morning, I hurdled tech troubles and punted plans that were imprecise in their pacing. My desk became my classroom, this sacred corner of my world hosting a perfectly attended afternoon.
Just now, I came upstairs from my first real break of the day, ideas swirling in my mind already, my fingers itching to get to the keys. Between me and the release that comes with making space: a plan book, a roster, a list of to-do’s. A Chromebook at five percent, its cord still tucked in the corner of a sunset-seeking suitcase.
It feels like cobwebs. Time spent weaving, spinning, threading someone’s else’s sunrise.
So I take it back. Stack by stack, piled at the edges. Focus at the center. Just for a moment.
I make sacred this space again, surprised at how easy it is to clear it all. The contents of this cup, the sounds from the Bluetooth speaker, the lighting still on a timer, the laughter in the next room, the time spent here instead of on the road, the all-in-one place of this space: it clears my space.
Clears cobwebs.
Cobwebs that catch the moonlight, the sunlight, the lamplight. That cast the dewdrops, the teardrops, the backdrops in clear perspective.
That make room for me again.
Clearing space.
It's About Making Space 