The Quiet Spaces Between Things

Well. That’s the thought I kept having Monday morning, sitting at my kitchen table with a fresh pot of coffee. A simple “well,” but it held so much in its quietness. It was after a luncheon Friday, a lovely affair with friends from church and long ago. Pleasant conversation, good food – the kind of afternoon that leaves you feeling…full, certainly, but not necessarily *nourished*. More like pleasantly drowsy.

It reminded me, strangely enough, of those years I spent marking papers late into the night. There was a certain exhaustion, yes, but also a relentless pressure to be *doing*, to be achieving. Evenings meant grading, weekends meant lesson planning, summers were filled with professional development workshops. It never seemed to end. And looking back now, I realize how little of that time held any genuine joy.

These days, I’m supposed to have leisure. A life free from the demands of a classroom and school board meetings. Jerry insists I should be traveling, seeing the world. He thinks I'm missing out. Perhaps I am. But what he doesn’t understand – and I suspect many wouldn’t - is that sometimes the greatest discoveries are made not in bustling cities or exotic locales, but in the quiet spaces between things. The moments when you aren't actively striving for something.

My grandson, Marcus, has a tablet practically glued to his hands. A wonderful boy, truly; bright as a button and with such a kind heart. But I see him sometimes, scrolling endlessly through that screen, and I wonder what he’s missing. What is being lost in all those flashing images and incessant notifications? When does he have time to just *be*? To let his mind wander down unexpected paths?

I remember once asking my students what their favorite things were to do when they weren't at school. So many of them said, “Watch videos,” or "play online games." Very few could articulate a joy that didn’t involve some sort of device. It saddened me then and it saddens me now. Where has the simple pleasure of daydreaming gone? Of staring out the window and letting your imagination fill in the blanks?

The other day, volunteering at the food pantry, I saw a young mother struggling to keep her two small children entertained while she sorted donations. They were restless, whining, reaching for her phone. She looked utterly defeated. It broke my heart because it seemed so…inevitable. We've made it so difficult to simply *exist*. To be present in the moment without feeling the need to fill every second with something—anything.

Jerry teases me about how long I sit at that kitchen table now, just looking out at the bird feeder. "You’ll wear a hole in the furniture," he says with a chuckle. But it's not idleness, dear. It's observation. It’s reflection. It’s letting my mind untangle itself from all the knots of everyday life. Ideas come to me then, you know. Solutions to problems I didn't even realize I had. A sudden memory of a student who needed an extra bit of encouragement. The perfect ending for a quilt pattern I've been pondering for weeks.

Perhaps that’s what true rest is—not the absence of activity, but the freedom from constant distraction. Allowing ourselves to be…well, just *be*. To let our minds wander and wonder and occasionally, yes, even be bored. It's in those quiet spaces, I think, that we truly find ourselves. And maybe, just maybe, a little piece of the world as well.