Popped a big chicken pot pie in the microwave and tapped in the cook time: about 8 minutes.
Streamed 1/3 of a TV show while waiting: about 8 minutes.
Sitting at a writing prompt staring at the page for 8 minutes trying to figure out something creative and wild and awesome to say, and it felt like forever.
Asked to hold a plank position for 10 seconds, 20, 30 seconds and it felt like forever.
Remembering all those summer days poolside at our neighbors house, learning how to hold our breath and swim laps around the pool under water. I wish I could remember how long I held mine, the longest of long. I know it was pretty long and I can remember now as I hone in on those days the feeling of my heart pounding and my lungs getting hot. Breaking the surface for air was a bummer of an instinct, wanting to keep going.
Writing in my journal this morning for 8 minutes saying not much of anything. Mostly committing to page details of a quiet life and the emotions that come with it.
I want to write and tell you about the new cat on the sill across the way, keeping me company at 5 in the morning. It’s the first hot morning of the year and the dragonflies are here trying to find their way, and the cat is deeply interested in their appearance. I wish them well and hope they find nourishment and rest and achieve the apex of their life journey.
All I know right now is 8 minutes is a long, long time to be on my stomach with hands in cuffs and somebody keeping their knee in my neck. Why hell, I could be into a chicken pot pie and the tensest part of a Deadwood episode by now! Doubt me? Put your timer on your phone 8:46 and see how long “long” is. That’s your child, your brother, your sister, your father down there. But hey, what do I know.