I had a few minutes. Nothing urgent needed my attention. I wasn't late. I wasn't waiting for anyone to call me back. There was simply a small opening in the day.
And almost immediately, I reached for my phone.
Not because there was something I needed to see. It was more automatic than that. A few empty minutes appeared, and apparently my first instinct was to make sure they didn't stay empty for long.
I started thinking about how often we do this.
We sit in a waiting room and scroll. We stand in line and check email. We have ten minutes before we need to leave, and suddenly ten minutes feels like enough time to answer something, straighten something, look something up, or cross one more thing off the list.
Even an open Saturday can begin to feel suspiciously unfinished.
What are we going to do with it?
Should we make plans? Run errands? Get ahead on something? Clean out that closet? Catch up on the things we didn't get to during the week?
Somewhere along the way, empty space began to look a little too much like wasted space.
And I wonder when that happened.
There was a time when waiting was just...waiting. You could sit somewhere and watch people come and go. You could stand outside for a few minutes and notice the weather. You could drive somewhere without filling every mile with a podcast, a phone call, or something you were trying to learn.
I'm not suggesting those things are bad. I enjoy many of them. Sometimes that ten-minute window really is the perfect time to return an email.
But I have been wondering about the reflex behind it all.
That almost immediate feeling that an opening should be used.
Maybe it is because we have become so accustomed to having something available to us at every moment. Something to read. Something to watch. Something to answer. Something to organize. Something productive we could be doing.
There is always another thing waiting.
And when there is always another thing waiting, an unclaimed moment can begin to feel strangely uncomfortable.
I think that's the part that interests me most.
Not whether we should spend less time on our phones or schedule fewer things. Those are different conversations.
This one is about what happens inside us when nothing is asking for our attention.
Do we even know what to do with that anymore?
This weekend reminded me what that can feel like.
Every year, our family gathers at my sister’s house in Vermont for what we call our “Annual Country Croquet Tournament”. There isn’t much of an agenda beyond visiting, catching up, laughing, eating, drinking, and seeing who can make it through the course with some dignity intact. Truthfully, none of us. ;)
We stayed a little longer this year so we could wander through a local farmers market with my sister, where my nephew happened to be performing. He is a wonderfully talented singer-songwriter, and there was something about being there listening to him that felt especially sweet.
We parked the van along the back of the gazebo, rolled out the awning, grabbed our chairs, and settled in. Coffee and chai tea lattes from their local cafe in hand, we sat and listened.
No rushing. No wondering what was next.
Even Riley seemed to understand the assignment, settling into the easy Sunday rhythm right along with us.
It was simple. And maybe that was the point.
None of it had been packed tightly into the weekend. We weren’t rushing from one thing to the next or trying to make every hour count.
There was room for it.
Room to sit a little longer. Room to talk about nothing important and somehow leave feeling more connected. Room to decide what came next without having already decided it the night before.
And maybe that is part of what we lose when every opening is already spoken for.
Sometimes the best moments aren’t the ones we planned. They are the ones there was enough space to notice.
Maybe some spaces are not gaps waiting to be filled. Maybe they are simply part of the natural rhythm of a life—small pauses between one thing and the next.
A few minutes in the car before walking inside.
The quiet after dinner.
An hour that unexpectedly opens up.
A Saturday afternoon with nowhere we have to be.
What if we didn't immediately assign those moments a job?
I'm beginning to think there is something important about having parts of our lives that haven't already been spoken for.
Not because we need to use that space to meditate, reflect, plan, recharge, or become better versions of ourselves.
Even that would be filling it.
Perhaps the invitation is much simpler.
Leave a little room.
Room for your mind to wander somewhere unexpected. Room to notice what you didn't realize you were thinking about. Room to decide at 2:00 what you feel like doing at 2:05.
Or room for absolutely nothing to happen at all.
There is something almost luxurious about that now, isn't there?
A little corner of the day that doesn't need to produce anything.
And perhaps that is why this conversation feels worth having.
We spend so much of our lives creating schedules, routines, plans, and systems that help everything work. They matter. They hold a life together.
But maybe a good rhythm isn't made only from the things we put into it.
Maybe it also needs a few spaces where nothing has been placed yet.
One Intentional Step
Sometime this week, when a small pocket of time opens up, see if you can resist filling it immediately.
Not for an hour. Maybe just five or ten minutes.
Leave it unclaimed and notice what happens.
No agenda. No expectation.
Just a little space that gets to remain... well... space.
Continue the Conversation
I'm curious about this one.
When you suddenly have a few unplanned minutes, what do you usually do with them?
And how does it feel to imagine leaving some of them completely unfilled?
Until next time…
Grant yourself a little grace.
Trust yourself a little more.
And take one intentional step.
Be well,
Mary-Anne
