The unfilled five minutes

Here's the thing about making a dent in a chore or task, five minutes at a time:

It doesn't have to go the other way, too.

What do I mean?

Not every five-minute window of time needs to—or even should be—filled.

If you've got something that needs doing, it can get done, bit by bit, in just five minutes at a time.

If you've got five empty minutes, sure, you can fill them by knocking out something on your list.

But also: YOU CAN LEAVE THEM UNFILLED.

Not every moment needs to be productive.

I'll say it louder for the folks in the back: NOT EVERY MOMENT NEEDS TO BE PRODUCTIVE.

(And that's if we're understanding "productive" to mean one very narrow thing involving some sort of doing. Because, in fact, doing nothing can be wildly productive.)

Oftentimes I have many things that need to get done. And frequently, it's during those very seasons of long to-do lists that, should an unfilled five-minute window materialize, I'd rather just sit there than take even the smallest step toward striking something off my list.

I need an empty five minutes more than I need a gold star.

I need space to be more than I need a thing to do.

So, understand that, when I suggest using those five minutes in front of you (versus waiting for the 45 unpromised minutes), it's a nudge to move away from perfectionism; from waiting for circumstances to be perfect before doing the thing you want or need to do.

Equally, I'd encourage you to move away from the perfectionism that argues you should use all your time "wisely" or "productively." That's a kind of perfectionism, too.

So, water your plants if they're thirsty. Five minutes at a time.

And, on the other hand, if you find yourself with a spare five minutes, recognize your own thirst (in all its forms) and tend to it.

Don't kill your houseplants

I’m thinking about watering our houseplants.

I don't mean to say I'm considering watering them.

I mean more that I'm thinking about the act of watering our houseplants. And how it's one of many regular, maintenance-type activities that I try to slot into my schedule each week.

We have a lot of houseplants. Like, a lot a lot.

Their sheer number, plus their various locations all over the house means it’s always taken me a good 45 minutes to perform my watering duties every weekend.

Then I had a baby who, in the past two-and-a-half years, has become a toddler. Most of my schedules and routines ran away like a frightened pet when she was born—and they're probably staying scarce until she's old enough to participate a bit more (and in a less destructive way).

Anyway, there have been many weekends in the past couple years when not a single houseplant gets watered.

Not even one.

Not even the little air plants on the windowsill over the kitchen sink, a place where I stand for many, many minutes each and every day.

Why?

Because I'm waiting for the 45 unpromised minutes I know it will take to water all the plants in one go, instead of using the five minutes I have here and there to water a couple plants in-between other activities.

This is silly!

It's also a great way to kill all your houseplants at once!

In all seriousness, though: You have five minutes. I have five minutes.

There's something you want or need to do that you could easily make a dent in (even just a start!) if only you'd use those five minutes you have, right here in the present moment—instead of waiting for the fantasy 45 that might not ever come in one perfectly-formed chunk.

What will you give five minutes to this week? Let me know in the comments.

Additives (the good kind)

In the weeks after I gave birth to our daughter, I regressed to being something of a newborn, myself.

For about two months, I didn't leave the house all that much.

I couldn't wrap my head around how to navigate the world now that a piece of my heart existed outside of my body. We were too vulnerable, in my mind, and there were too many hazards to our safety and well-being.

I was overwhelmed by the enormity of the thing I'd just done; I was overwhelmed by all the new ways that I was now responsible; I was overwhelmed by the thought of interacting with others when my mind felt like it had shrunk significantly—leaving room only for thoughts and concerns about my baby.

But slowly, and with a lot of help and patience from my people, I practiced re-entry.

A walk around the block to start.

Eventually, that gave way to a walk around the neighborhood.

At some point, we attempted a trip to Target. I didn't get out of the car and when my baby woke up, I nursed her in the backseat, in a quiet corner of the parking lot. Some time later, we actually made it inside Target.

We built on Target with a 20-minute drive to a state park and a long, meandering walk around the campground—and once we had that under our belts, we went on a longer drive, an hour away to Lake Michigan.

With each new outing came a slow-drip of new experiences: from getting the baby into and out of the carrier, to nursing at a picnic bench, and everything in between (including learning that the backseat of our car really isn't ideal for changing messy diapers... Turns out, the slope of the seat is too great and babies roll really easily...).

Once family outings felt stable, we added in some social stuff, bit by bit.

Five months out and we're continuing to re-introduce those elements of life that we enjoyed before we were a family of three. Very deliberately and very (very) slowly.

This means that Summer 2019 didn't really happen for me in a recognizable way. Same, so far, with Fall 2019. As much as I want to have all the photos ops of our daughter experiencing her first pass through the seasons (hayrides! Pumpkin patches! Hiking through fall foliage!), I'm just not there yet.

I'm getting there. But I'm not there yet.

What I’m saying, though, is this: If, back before the first time I left the house with the baby, you'd asked me when I'd be ready to do so, I couldn't have told you. I might've even said, Never. Everything is different now. Because that's absolutely how I felt.

I couldn't fathom having the bandwidth to drive a car or carry a conversation ever again. It seemed impossible that I'd ever walk the mall or visit a coffee shop. Forget doing seasonal stuff. That was for people who were better than I am at this whole new parenthood thing. (In fact, they're not better at it; it might be that they're able to add stuff back into the mix more quickly than I.)

But with each new outing and each new experience, my feeling of capability has increased.

It continues to increase.

So, a question for you:

Where can you build, just a tiny bit, on what you're already doing?

(And can you allow yourself to feel patient with and proud of your expanding capability, however slowly it may be expanding?)

Share your answers with me in the comments below.