The Quiet Spaces Between the Doing

Sometimes, I think about room 214, and how much space there really *was* in it. Not just physical square footage – though we did manage to cram a lot into that room over the year – but mental space. The kind where kids could just…be. Stare out the window at the trees changing color, doodle elaborate spaceships in their notebooks when they should have been writing about nouns and verbs, just *think*. We had rules, of course, but there were also stretches of time that weren’t governed by anything other than quiet curiosity. And I realize now, looking back, how important those moments were for all of us.

It’s different these days, isn't it? Everything feels like it needs to be *doing* something. A constant hum of notifications, podcasts, news alerts, Instagram reels, YouTube videos... the kids are always plugged in, and honestly, so am I. My phone spends a surprising amount of time just sitting face down on my kitchen table while I’m trying to perfect the slow simmer on this Sunday gravy I've been working on – my grandmother started it years ago, you know, and I felt like I was finally getting somewhere with it this summer. But even then, there's a little voice in the back of my head urging me to check email, to see if anyone responded to that text.

There’s something valuable lost when everything is optimized for efficiency. There used to be an expectation – or maybe just a natural tendency – for minds to wander, to fill with random observations and unexpected connections. Those little rabbit holes are how you build things, I think. How you figure out how two seemingly unrelated ideas can suddenly spark into something new. It’s where stories come from. It's certainly where some of my lesson plans have originated, the really good ones anyway.

I spent a lot of time in Fishtown this summer, which meant long mornings at that kitchen table, staring out the window and letting my thoughts drift. Nothing particularly profound happened – mostly just noticing the way the light hits the brick buildings different times of day, remembering conversations with old friends. But it was enough. Enough to recharge a little, to make space for those random connections to happen.

My aunt Mary in Delaware County makes these cookies—she calls them “Mary’s Cookies”—and they always taste like childhood summers and uncomplicated joy. Visiting her family felt like stepping back into that simpler time. No pressure to achieve anything spectacular, no sense of urgency, just the comforting rhythm of shared meals and easy laughter. It reminds me what's important, somehow.

I remember a kid in room 214 last year—Marco—who used to spend recess building these incredibly intricate Lego castles. They were so detailed, so imaginative. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone, he just seemed utterly absorbed in the process of creation. And I realized then that we don't let kids do enough of *that* anymore. We pack their schedules with activities and enrichment programs, all geared toward getting them “ahead,” but what about simply letting them build castles?

There’s a weird pressure these days to always be productive. To maximize every minute of the day. But I think we're hurting ourselves in the process. Quietude isn't laziness; it’s fuel. It’s space for reflection, for creativity, for just…being. It’s allowing your mind to make its own connections, unburdened by the demands of the outside world.

And maybe, just maybe, if we can reclaim a little bit of that mental space – for ourselves and for the kids in room 214 next year – we’ll find that it's not about *doing* more, but about *being* more fully present in whatever we choose to do. Even something as simple as stirring Sunday gravy.