I have the house to myself today. THE WHOLE HOUSE.
Noone holed up in their bedroom for a remote class. Noone home on spring break. Noone home with a headache after wearing a mask all day at school. Noone even working from their home office - because my husband finally broke down this winter and rented an office space in town.
I find myself fluttering around from this to that, having trouble focusing on one thing at a time. We’ve got lots of loose ends around here, some small (what time is that appointment at the RMV next Tuesday?) and some not so small (so which college do you want to commit to?).
Throw in the laundry, type up notes for a meeting this afternoon, make tea, print out an agenda for tomorrow’s women’s circle, check to see if the cat’s face still looks a little swollen, figure out where I left my tea, put a few dishes left from breakfast in the dishwasher, look for that missing bus pass (and find my tea!)...that about sums it up.
Moving in lots of directions and feeling like I’m going nowhere fast.
Kind of like the sprinkler head on the summer lawn, spinning and twirling and pulsing and going nowhere.
Which means a pause is in order. So, I notice my feet on the floor and I take a deep breath. And I let my shoulders fall away from my ears with an audible exhale.
My gaze rests on the large maple tree outside the kitchen window. Little green buds perch at the ends of the branches, waiting for the moment to unfurl into spring green, pre-leaf blossoms.
They probably aren’t actually waiting; the tree is just doing its process at the speed that it goes. Allowing things to happen that my eye can’t register.
And yet it helps me to think of the tree as patiently waiting, pausing for what comes next, rooted and nourished by its soil and willing to wait for a warmer week to pop into blossom.
At the very least, my vision of the tree is inviting me to pause, to feel the grounding of my feet on the floor and let go of the desire to have “all the things” taken care of and put into their tidy little boxes, whether on my calendar or on my kitchen counter.
I feel inclined to ask, What is budding within me? What is preparing to emerge? It slows me down, and I find myself tending to myself in a more intentional way.
I have the whole house to myself. It’s quiet and still. And now I have created some quiet, still space on the inside as well.
What invitation does stillness offer you? What is your being asking for in this moment?
Noone holed up in their bedroom for a remote class. Noone home on spring break. Noone home with a headache after wearing a mask all day at school. Noone even working from their home office - because my husband finally broke down this winter and rented an office space in town.
I find myself fluttering around from this to that, having trouble focusing on one thing at a time. We’ve got lots of loose ends around here, some small (what time is that appointment at the RMV next Tuesday?) and some not so small (so which college do you want to commit to?).
Throw in the laundry, type up notes for a meeting this afternoon, make tea, print out an agenda for tomorrow’s women’s circle, check to see if the cat’s face still looks a little swollen, figure out where I left my tea, put a few dishes left from breakfast in the dishwasher, look for that missing bus pass (and find my tea!)...that about sums it up.
Moving in lots of directions and feeling like I’m going nowhere fast.
Kind of like the sprinkler head on the summer lawn, spinning and twirling and pulsing and going nowhere.
Which means a pause is in order. So, I notice my feet on the floor and I take a deep breath. And I let my shoulders fall away from my ears with an audible exhale.
My gaze rests on the large maple tree outside the kitchen window. Little green buds perch at the ends of the branches, waiting for the moment to unfurl into spring green, pre-leaf blossoms.
They probably aren’t actually waiting; the tree is just doing its process at the speed that it goes. Allowing things to happen that my eye can’t register.
And yet it helps me to think of the tree as patiently waiting, pausing for what comes next, rooted and nourished by its soil and willing to wait for a warmer week to pop into blossom.
At the very least, my vision of the tree is inviting me to pause, to feel the grounding of my feet on the floor and let go of the desire to have “all the things” taken care of and put into their tidy little boxes, whether on my calendar or on my kitchen counter.
I feel inclined to ask, What is budding within me? What is preparing to emerge? It slows me down, and I find myself tending to myself in a more intentional way.
I have the whole house to myself. It’s quiet and still. And now I have created some quiet, still space on the inside as well.
What invitation does stillness offer you? What is your being asking for in this moment?
 | Jessica Curtis is a professional life coach who helps people cultivate intention and live from a place of meaning and authenticity. If you think you could benefit from working with Jessica or want to invite her to work with your group, reach out to start a conversation. |
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