We’re closing in on a century since Virginia Woolf combined her notes from a series of lectures she held and then put together into an extended essay called “A Room of One’s Own.” While the essay really addresses the need for women writers to have a literal as well as a figurative space in order to write and write well, the overall gist is clear: women need to have sacred space in their lives in order to be productive and fulfilled.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the essay lately and not only because I’m a writer. I’ve just been having one of those extended periods of time that women sometimes have when it seems like everyone needed something from me and to fulfill those obligations I was neglecting an obligation I have to myself: to spend some quality time alone. It’s something I see women do frequently.

But then the craziest thing happened. I had a plane of my own.

Well, I was sharing it with a couple hundred strangers, so it wasn’t exactly my own, but the point is: due to not having enough frequent flyer miles for all of us, my kids and husband took a separate flight than I did a couple weeks ago. We took parallel paths from Philadelphia to the Virgin Islands, leaving and landing within minutes of each other going there and the same happened on our return flight.

Prior to leaving I was amazed, intrigued and a little disturbed by some of the responses people made when I told them what was about to happen. I was amazed by the women who were envious that my husband was capable of handling the kids alone (not that they thought my kids were hoodlums or anything; they just didn’t think their husbands could handle it, which made me question why they bred with them to begin with). I was intrigued by a few who thought it was wise of me – after all if one of the planes crashed, the surviving members could still possibly carry on the family genes. That seemed to suggest our blood line is integral to the survival of the planet. And I was disturbed by the women who seemed to think I was committing the eleventh deadly sin.

Apparently it was somehow selfish of me to place saving $600+ (yes, the price difference was that big) over being of immediate service to my family. What if something went wrong? Despite no one being able to elaborate on what kind of “something” only I out of the whole world can handle, they still insisted they would never abandon their family for eight hours like that. It was wrong of me. Ego-maniacal and possibly even mean-spirited.

I shook off their concerns because I knew a little alone time on the plane would do me good. I was a frazzled as a poodle’s hair in 99% humidity. I was as strung out as a meth head (in theory, really I have no idea how a meth head feels). And I was nearing that point when I could totally relate to Marie Osmond when she got in her car and just drove and drove and drove. Seemed to me a plane of my own came at just the right time.

Because I had a layover in Atlanta (while the fam had a layover in Charlotte) the trip took about eight hours. That meant I had eight hours when I was awake (for most of it; I did take a small nap) for both going and returning. I had eight hours with no one interrupting every half-thought with questions they most likely already knew the answer to. Eight hours with no one asking me to add just one more thing on my to-do list. Eight hours with just my own fuzzy thoughts occupying my brain.

What a delicious experience! I didn’t even try to make conversation with the people next to me. I relished my quietness. I meditated a little. I read a little. I listened to recorded motivational speakers on my phone. I also took notes on some of the more bizarre things I witnessed in the hopes I could play on them in future books. And when I landed I was ready to take on the world. More than refreshed, I was balanced and happy; cheeky even.

So, yes, Virginia, we do need a room of our own, you are so very right. And for this, “room” has a relative definition. It could be a chair in the laundry room. It could be a few quiet moments in the last stall in the restroom at work. Or it could even be in our car in a parking lot when we force out all thoughts of what needs to happen next and just breathe.

But a room only does us good if we remember to use it.  It only does us good if we value it and ourselves enough to not feel guilty when we need it. I can’t help but look back at the months preceding that much needed vacation and wonder what I did with all my time. What was perpetually so important I couldn’t stop to just breathe?  Why is it I was so exhausted I couldn’t do the most revitalizing thing: rest? I can’t for the life of me figure it out.

In an effort not to get back into that overwhelmed state, I’ve set an alarm on my cell phone to remind me every day to take a break. To find a space of my own and just sit with my thoughts. I’m promising myself I won’t use that time to go over what still needs to be done, or to work out car pool plans, or to make notes for a phone call or to do anything that is about someone or something that is not ME. I’m intending to make my room wherever I can. I’m not even sure I’ll let the dog in.