Twenty minutes on the floor

Everything moves fast. We are always trying to stay a step ahead, move quicker, plan for tomorrow and for two years from tomorrow. It is exhausting, and after a while it is overwhelming.

One summer I found myself moving a little slower. Rather than forcing a plan of action, I let the thoughts and ideas and plans filter in on their own.

The dock at seven

That summer was about being present. I woke up early, and by seven I was teaching a yoga class on the dock. I never knew who would come or how many, and it did not matter. I was sharing my practice and my experience, and letting the others share theirs with me.

Somewhere in that, ideas started to flow.

The floor

One day I went up to a quiet room at the cottage, settled down on the floor, and relaxed.

I did not focus on my breath, or on being still, or on anything at all. I let whatever thoughts wanted to come into my head come.

And some lovely plans started to take shape. No effort. Twenty minutes of being open.

If you have spent forty years scheduling every minute, twenty minutes of nothing can feel almost rude. Try it anyway. A quiet room, the floor, and no agenda. Nobody needs to know.

We are already talking

As adults we feel we have to make plans, have conversations that mean something, and schedule each and every minute.

Around then I sat with Gray, who was six, and watched him play. I asked, "Gray, is there anything you would like to talk about?"

He kept playing with his toys. "We're already talking?"

Thoughts and conversations do not have to be forced, or have a theme. One conversation led into another with Gray: Club Penguin, swimming with the minnows, and why you can still see the moon when the sun is out. No grand plans. Just being in the moment and letting the thoughts unfold.

Too bad we are not all as smart as children.

From the archive. First written for my journal years ago, and rewritten for life after 50.