In my efforts of building supportive life-giving habits over the last year, I have been choosing to not look at my phone first thing in the morning. I am not perfect at it, but the difference it has made in my life when I stick to this plan, is profound. I remind myself that I can’t pick up my phone until I have done my meditation for a minimum of ten minutes and journal writing for at least the same, another ten minutes. I chose this way to begin my day because I know myself, when I pick up my phone it is like jumping down a rabbit hole and I may or may not come out before lunch time. I can easily spend far more than twenty minutes lost in a maze of comparison or sucked in to watching other people make entertaining yes, but ridiculously contrived videos. When I pick up my phone before I have tended to my soul, woken up to my longings, voice, desires, intentions, or simply woken up — I forget who I am. I am easily manipulated into thinking I am not enough and ask myself what am I doing with my life?

When I pick up my phone first thing, not only do I lose focus, start responding to everyone’s texts and ever so innocently end up on social media, this all results in becoming quite annoyed at myself for wasting time that could have been spent doing something that fuels, supports and fills me. I know that quiet and writing fill me so I must do it first, otherwise I find a lot of excuses to not show up at all — leaving my longings, desires and connected self in the dust.

My life-giving habit keeps me present as I remember, practice and practice again what most grounds, unites and grows me.

Good habits, like life can get interrupted. Falling back into old patterns can happen in the blink of an eye. Because I had been sick for over a month and had temporarily fallen out of my new life-giving routine, I picked up my phone early one morning before meditation and writing.

Karen’s text didn’t send me down a rabbit hole, it sent me to a whole other place.

“Cathy died.”

Although Karen and I have been in regular contact since our friendship began at the end of our high school sophomore year in 1984, early morning texts aren’t part of our pattern of connection and communication. I had a feeling it was important to read this one now and not wait. 

My friendship with Karen began when we both made the cheerleading team along with our small squad of six. That’s where I met Cathy. The ever upbeat, positive, funny, kind, big hearted, Cathy. Even though I didn’t build a friendship with Cathy outside of the cheer squad experience that took place forty years ago, her radiant smile is still etched in my mind. Her kindness, remembered in my bones. 

A few more texts of clarification and information, I learned that Cathy died a couple of months earlier. Hearing this, I walked through the rest of my day differently. Remembering her sweetness, recalling her positivity, I thought to myself, how do I want to live if my time is cut unexpectedly short?

We all know our days are numbered on this earth, we just don’t know how many days are left for us. It’s a shock when someone we know, or even don’t know, dies suddenly. We act like the impossible just happened even though we all are aware of how it works. We are born, we die and in between we are meant to live. 

When we learn about the death of someone, a beloved friend, an acquaintance or even just a stranger, we are changed in that instant. Sad for the loss. Shocked that it happened. Struck silent. Befuddled as to why now, why them? This causes a chain reaction shaking us to the core over the sudden end of this person, we knew well or only on the edges, a brief encounter. The response turning inward: Why am I here? What is my purpose on this earth? What if my timecard is up, will I have lived well, on purpose, for any good reason at all? Scratching our heads, pondering, wondering, shaken up about what we are here for, asking ourselves, What’s it all for anyway?

That’s what happened to me that day. After learning that sweet, bubbly, lovely Cathy was gone, I had a scheduled walking date with my friend Erika. We walked our neighborhood a little slower. I didn’t worry about getting everything into our conversation, I listened as we stopped to smell the pink peonies. I listened again as we stopped to look out at the Puget Sound and Olympic Mountains. Together we paused again to look each other in the eyes when something important had to be said in the middle of our conversation. 

At the end of our walk, taking different roads home, I remembered Cathy’s sweetness, recalled her positivity and thought to myself, how do I want to live if my time is up in ten minutes? I chose ten minutes because it seemed like that was the time span that a new opportunity presents itself: running into someone I know, receiving a text, hit with life in a good or bad way, the phone rings, my mood changes from content to worried, or the timer goes off indicating that it is time for the next appointment, responsibility, task or general life thing. In those short snaps of time, life is always changing, adjusting, shifting. Every ten minutes…. something new. It is also the time span for me holding an empty or full Cup. It only takes ten minutes or less to make a change toward fullness. When I’m aware and notice, I have a choice to react, respond, create, judge, appreciate or move forward in my life.

I allowed my day to be interrupted with life: unexpected phone calls, a friend needing to talk, the rescheduling of my daily plan. I allowed life instead of forcing my agenda. I permitted the one thought to follow me and carry me through the day, “How would I want to show up, if this were my last ten minutes on this planet?” This created space. Released judgment, control and negativity, resulting in truly being mindful. 

• Am I using my time in a life-giving way?
• Am I being thoughtful and kind?
• Am I complaining or doing something useful about my complaints?
• Am I creating peace, love or joy?

If my life stopped in ten minutes would the time leading up to that moment be purposeful, positive, energizing? This kind of reflection forced me to S L O W the heck D O W N. Life is not a race to the finish.

Instead of getting annoyed if someone was running late or worried that I would be late, I asked the Trader Joe clerk in front of me how their day was going and got present to the people, circumstances and often the sound of bird song right in front of me. No fixing anyone, only receiving the conversation or music in the moment. I tried my damnedest to recognize that life is precious, fleeting and not to be taken for granted.

Ten Minutes. Ten minutes is the typical amount of time my mood or actions shift. A lot of living can happen in ten minutes.

Am I listening well? How am I showing up? If lightning strikes in my last ten minutes on this earth, will I have shown up with kindness at the center? Will I be remembered for saying something that helped someone experience peace or joy? Will they feel heard? Will they experience love? Will I have acted purposefully standing in the moment tapped into useful, loving, beneficial energy?

Listening was my ten-minute prayer. Being present was my ten-minute practice.

Since reading that text have I stayed on this ten-minute track? Not 100%. Have I gotten sad, mad, worried or walked in fear. YES. And I have readjusted, maybe not every ten minutes but more often than before Karen’s text. Then ten days after learning about Cathy, I had another reminder of this precious life. A dear man, one of the kindest humans I had the blessing of barely knowing, died unexpectedly, two months shy of his 60th birthday.

I rowed with Sampson at our neighborhood Row House for four years. The words we exchanged were few but his smile, presence and energy still linger in the rowing gym. A man whose physical strength was incredible possessed a spiritual quality of positivity, perseverance, peace, and kindness that even outweighed his powerful arm and leg strength. (A former body builder.) Every morning Sampson would arrive early with a smile that lit up the dimly lit gym. If I shouted out something silly and obnoxious during class, he would beam his wide smile, laughing with his eyes. Rowing next to him, we didn’t exchange a boat load of words, but Sampson would acknowledge my efforts at the end of class, always affirming with a thumbs up, “good job” or again that radiant grin. A calm in the storm. A presence you still feel when his erg is empty.

Attending Sampson’s funeral, I remembered that I too want to be remembered as kind. I remembered that every ten minutes I have a choice of how to live. Will I react with fear and anger, or will I respond with kindness? Will I use my energy for good or to complain? Will I kiss my husband goodbye before heading out the door? Will I greet my loved ones when they return home with ten minutes of love, positivity or joy?

In my last ten minutes it’s okay if I don’t know the latest Tik Tok, solve the daily Wordle, or check off the latest task on the calendar.

As I write this the sun is peeking through the umbrella of the corner coffee shop and my writing partner, dear friend Sonya, writes next to me. Grandparents push a stroller of twins dressed for the Fourth of July Community Parade and they both catch our eyes and say, “Hi.” Using their young voices during their ten-minute stroll to the parade gathering to say hello to all who they pass. I look at my watch. My last ten minutes have definitely been well lived, doing something I value, putting words on paper, drinking tea with a friend, saying good morning to strangers. I haven’t written a Pulitzer or saved a life, but I showed up on purpose honoring what is of importance to my heart.

This gives me peace. 

Ten minutes of quiet, ten minutes of writing, ten minutes of showing up to the present moment. My work, my practice. A life I want to live.

This brings a smile to my face, reminding me of Cathy and Sampson’s smiles.

Now I will pack up my things, walk home, and share my smile with another and then see what shows up in the next ten minutes.

Cheers, Jenny