TIME
There is no greater silent judge of how I will spend a day than my desk first thing in the morning. My desk has an anima. Like an effective parent, it can say everything without saying anything.
It sees the gap between intention and behavior. The moment when I sit down to rewrite a long client email and find myself shopping for skis instead. The desk doesn’t interrupt. It just stays there—quiet, upright, impossible to argue with.
Lately, its attitude has shifted. Or mine has.
It seems to approve of the hour I’ve been investing in the mornings: journaling, drawing, taking stock. At first I reached for it because I needed a place to process uncertainty. Now the routine is doing something else. Not solving problems exactly—more like keeping me steady while the problems remain unsolved. A mundane reflection that keeps me more present in the rest of the day: in heated moments, in the spaces between, in the small choices about what deserves my attention.
These days I think the desk is also encouraging me to invest in running again—without placing it in the discounted position it used to occupy. Not because it’s productive, but because it restores something essential in me. Trundling through forests and mountains brings a kind of peace and enjoyment that doesn’t feel negotiable anymore.
The calculus has changed.
Ten years ago, an extra hour outside would have taken me away from formative time with my son—after school moments, coaching, being available. It would have been a greater burden on my wife in the midst of her own busy work life. It would have meant neglecting the slow renovation work of our old house that we committed to when we took it on.
Now my son is building toward leaving home this year. He doesn’t need me the way he did. My wife and I can still reconnect at the end of the day and feel close. The priorities remain—family, work, the upkeep of the house—but the shape of the day has loosened. Time has become more mine to allocate without theft.
And I’m noticing how much meaning hides inside the things I used to treat as burdens. Repairing and painting the old bedroom doors can be tedious. If I paid myself my “hourly wage” for the work, it would be prohibitively expensive. But it’s rewarding beyond description to spend the time doing it well, and to see the doors fresh and finished in the house afterward—quiet proof of care.
This extends outward, too. Some relationships feed me differently now. I still enjoy simple downtime with friends—watching sports, talking, a couple beers. But it isn’t my recreation. Increasingly I find myself seeking people who want to be outside and cover ground. People I can share silence with. People who don’t need every moment filled.
Time is mine to spend in ways I’ll be grateful for later—next year on some ordinary January morning—when I sit down again at this desk that judges nothing and remembers everything.
