Twenty Minutes

There’s something about twenty minutes. Whether on the treadmill, elliptical, or, dare I say, walking or running outside, something happens after twenty minutes. Like a switch in my brain, thoughts of calls I need to be make, bills I need to be pay, or a lawn I need to mow give way to noticing how light shines through the trees, flowers smell, or how blessed I truly am. I’m sure there’s some physiological explanation, but I'm happy to wait for it to happen and stand back and watch as my mind, heart, and imagination dance around me like fireflies.

Twenty minutes on my walk this morning, as if on cue, a gust of wind came through the trees, causing thousands of acorns to drop from the trees. Like dodging machine gun fire, I covered my head and ducked. It lasted only a few seconds, but the moment was loaded with significance and meaning.

Before walking, I finished a memoir by Paula Susan Wallace, the founder of the Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD), entitled The Bee and the Acorn and could not help but laugh at the synchronicity. SCAD is a remarkable school created to teach students to become industrious and adaptable as bees and as solid and lasting as the oaks (which come from acorns).

As I meandered through nature’s shrapnel, I thought of something author Elizabeth Gilbert, said about ideas. They come to us, knock on our door, and it’s our responsibility to answer the knock. If we don’t, the idea will find someone who will. So, too, if we open the door but do nothing with the idea, it will leave and find a more accommodating host.

Because I was past the twenty minute mark, I could see how ideas, like acorns, fall all around us. The question is, what will we do with them? Will we cover our heads and keep walking, or will we take one and help it become what it has the potential to be?

Will we write that book or paint that picture, or leave it for someone else?

Will we introduce that half-baked inspired, crazy idea at the next staff meeting, or remain quiet?

Will we try something we’ve always wanted to do, or play it safe?

Will we follow that hunch and call or write someone on our mind, or just think about them?

Will we sketch the scene before us, or keep moving?

Will we write out the lines of a poem that came out of nowhere, or think about something else?

Will we see in ordinary events something inspirational and tell others about it? . . . We will, if it happens after twenty minutes!

The Gate

There once was a farmer who lived on a beautiful farm. It provided him with enough on which to live, and the views were broad and long enough to suggest more to life than his farm.

Next door, however, there was a farm which was said to be vast and fertile, the likes no one had ever known. He’d read about his neighbor’s farm, its rich soil and endless views. He often gathered others to talk about what his neighbor’s farm must be like. From what the books and others said, the farm next door sounded like a dream come true.

The problem was, he could not see the other farm. From his, all he could see was a great wall dividing the two farms. In frustration, he stopped reading the books and talking to others. “What good is learning about a place I cannot see for myself,” he reasoned.

Then, one day, his neighbor built a gate in the wall, and called over, “Come over anytime. We’d love to have you.” The gate, and his neighbor’s sincere invitation, made the farmer feel better. He began reading books and talking to others again, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to do more than that. In the comfort of the place he knew, he looked over at the gate from time to time and smiled. It made him feel good just to know it was there.

In time, though, the longing within left him feeling empty and frustrated again. He tried reading more, and talking at greater lengths with others, but the emptiness and frustration did not subside.

“The gate’s not going to open itself,” said a familiar voice on the other side.  “My job was to build the gate and to invite you in. The rest is up to you. I did my part. Now it’s your turn.”

After a minute to think, the farmer was embarrassed to be invited a second time. Leaving his books and conversations with others behind, he walked toward the gate. Determined to see what lay on the other side for himself, he reached out, turned the latch, pushed the gate open, and walked through.

Letting Go

With two hands, the successful fisherman lifted his catch. Marveling at its beauty one last time, he reaches over the side of the boat and holds it gently in the water as it acclimates to its new surroundings. Suddenly it wiggles, letting him know it’s ready, and, with a mixture of gratitude and regret, he opens his hands, letting the fish swim off, out of sight.

That’s how it feels to be a parent sometimes. Whether driving them to the first day at school, seeing them off at an airport, or walking them down an aisle, our lives are never-ending cycles of such moments. Holding gently for only a moment, we gaze at their beauty and stand in awe. With both gratitude and regret, we reach over and place them in their new surroundings. Wishing we could continue to hold them, or maybe even pull them back into the boat, they wiggle and let us know it’s time. They’re ready. Opening our hands, they swim, which is what they were created to do, and are soon out of sight.

Such experiences are not unique to parents, of course. We all struggle to let go of those we love, and, no matter how often we participate in this sacred rite, it never gets easier. The love that causes our hearts to swell, is the same love that rips them apart. That’s the deal, I suppose. It’s what being a human being is all about, and, when we’re honest and feeling secure, we’d never have it any other way.