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.

You don't have a problem

Last week, a client presented me with a conundrum.

She'd been working on a long-term writing project for the better part of a year and was making headway thanks to her understanding of how habits work: Sitting at her desk for 20 minutes every morning, she'd pound out her unfiltered thoughts before getting started with the rest of her day. She'd made it as much a part of her routine as brushing her teeth.

She's completed marathons before—she's even training for one now—and so, she's no stranger to breaking down a goal or project into small steps, super doable tasks, and then making a schedule to move through each of those tasks.

Problem was, even though she'd folded this newer habit into her schedule quite successfully for a few weeks at a time, it would happen, almost inevitably, that she'd skip a morning to sleep in after a late night of work, or her kids would need her in some unforeseen way, and she'd have a string of days (or even weeks) where she wasn't writing at all.

Would she resume the schedule after some time had passed? I was curious to know if her writing project was truly abandoned or not.

Eventually, yes. She told me she always returned to it, picking back up with the daily habit—but it wasn't too long before there were more skipped days or weeks.

What to do about all that squandered time?

What to do about the lapsed discipline?

How could she make this writing habit...stick better?

I told her I wasn't convinced there was a problem here.

This wasn't procrastination (not that that's even a problem—watch this first and then email me if you're still skeptical). This wasn't a matter of discipline. This wasn't indicative of a need for a new system or tool or accountabili-buddy.

This was life.

Going with the (ebb and) flow of life.

And this was thought.

Thinking a whole lot about what was (or wasn't) happening in a given period of time—and what that might mean.

Some weeks are writing weeks, some weeks are not.

She considered all of this for a brief moment and her face relaxed.

"I'm just going with the flow."

What about you?

• Where might you be seeing a problem where there isn't one?

• Is there a situation that you've been quick to diagnose and attempt to treat?

• How does it change when you consider that nothing's actually wrong, nothing needs fixing or improving?

• What if the way it's happening now is exactly the way it should be happening, whether you're in ebb or flow at the moment?

• What if you knew and trusted that it would change...and, like the tide, change again?

Share with me in the comments.

How to approach the end of a decade

Don't get too worked up about the end of this decade.

Yes, ten years is a notable chunk of time.

Yes, reflecting on the last ten years could be a worthwhile (or at least interesting) exercise and might turn up some useful information for how you want to approach the next ten.

Yes, it can be fun to join in on the collective buzz, posting pictures of yourself from 2009 or sharing all that you've achieved and overcome since.

But also?

The end of this decade doesn't actually mean anything.

The end of any decade—hell, any year or month or week or day!—doesn't actually mean anything. It’s simply the passage of time.

It doesn't mean anything beyond what you make it mean.

Beyond what you want it to mean.

What are you making it mean?

What do you want it to mean, if anything?

If you feel up to it, share your answers below.

New rules!

I finally got a haircut, but I haven't exercised for the better part of a week.

I'm on top of the laundry, but dust bunnies are accumulating along the baseboards.

I returned a phone call from months ago, but I still haven't finished writing the thank-you notes for all the thoughtful baby gifts that arrived back in May.

I'm getting this newsletter out to you, but my email inbox is in desperate need of triaging. (If yours is one of my as yet unanswered emails, thanks for your patience.)

In other words: Trade-offs come with the territory of being human and not machine.

This is not a failure on your part.

I repeat: This is not a failure on your part.

(Did you suspect I said that more for myself than for you? You were right. But I know there's a handful of you who need to hear this, too, so listen up.)

This is one of the Big Lessons of new parenthood for me, so far.

What if I told you it was actually impossible to keep all the plates spinning, all the time? (PHEW.)

What would change in how you approach the events and tasks that make up your life? (I would make choices more quickly, move on them, and then celebrate their completion—instead of deliberating endlessly, feeling like it's all lose-lose, and berating myself for my inaction.)

What would change inside your mind? (Mine would become a more pleasant place to hang out.)

How would you feel? (I'd feel at peace. Open to joy.)

Okay, so, here's something to chew on: Who ever said it was possible to keep all the plates spinning, all the time?

I don't know about you and your situation, but no one told me it was possible. I guess I just assumed? Which means full-fledged plate-spinning is an invention of my mind, a standard I've set, a fantasy I'm touting as reality.

Oof.

The impulse here might be to feel shame. ("Dammit, Helen, you created this untenable dynamic with yourself, for yourself. You are, quite literally, the source of your own suffering.")

But I'm resisting that entirely and I think you should, too. Because you know what this realization really means?

It means we're capable of changing the rules. After all, we're in charge around here. We're the creators of the narrative whether it's screwy and impossible and makes us feel like miserable failures...or it's wonderfully sound and leaves room for us to live life joyfully, if imperfectly.

What's a new rule we should write? Share it below.