What do we learn about ourselves in the time outs?
On Sunday, September 8th, flying back to Florida from an event in DC, just as my plane was about to hit the runway in Fort Lauderdale, golden twilight illuminating the plane, we lifted back into the air, climbing beyond 10,000 feet. There was silence as passengers looked at one another, a blend of alarm and confusion, waiting for the pilot to speak. The passenger in the seat next to me murmured, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Finally, the pilot’s voice rang through intercom, informing us there was a wind gust, and he had decided not to chance the landing. My weather app showed that Fort Lauderdale was in the 80’s with little to no wind.
On our personal TV’s, we watched the flight map as the plane soared towards Miami and eventually about faced, heading back towards Fort Lauderdale. I breathed deeply and intentionally, trying to still my racing heart. Thirty long minutes later, we landed in Fort Lauderdale. Being so close to 9/11, the incident resurfaced anxiety I hadn’t experienced in a long time. It was a reminder that life didn’t adhere to my schedule and that I was the one along for the ride. As we deplaned, grateful and relieved, I vowed to get off autopilot and into the now.
Time Outs
As an undergraduate, Thoreau’s Walden, in which Thoreau left all behind to live on the shores of Walden Pond to better appreciate nature and reflect on contemporary life and its definition of success and value, captivated me. Similarly, novels like the Sun Also Rises and Siddhartha, in which the protagonists abandoned their daily lives and visited faraway locales for adventure and introspection, captured my imagination. I was convinced that to get closer to myself, I too needed to step away.
And yet, a decade into my career, when I went off on my own adventures and spent time at an ashram, followed by months living in monasteries alongside Roman Catholic monks, I realized that serenity for me was not about secluding myself to meditate and write. My spiritual development was better served having to carve moments of peace and reflection in the chaos of each day, regardless of my surroundings. I also realized that I had never met anyone who “found” themselves and that instead, most people I admired lived in a loop of losing and finding themselves as each new chapter of their lives unfolded.
For dozens of years, my ability to create daily space was constant, whether I was running, writing, practicing yoga, or taking in the view. And then, during a year of tumultuous events, I lost my way and began to buzz from one thing to the next. My internal life was replaced by endless to-do lists, and while I tried to make space for reflection, I often filled my hours with nonstop activity. My life felt hazy at best, the constant motion distancing me from my core.
When Time Outs Choose Us
Sometimes, opportune or not, pauses choose us. Our flight is canceled, a car breaks down, or we get sick. It’s hard not to feel frustrated when our best laid plans don’t materialize, but what if the pause creates a shift that’s best for us in the long run? What if what we need to experience and learn can only occur when we break our routine? What if we need the pause to reconnect?
Over the past year, I have tried my best to push forward. Go-go-go has always been the most comfortable gear for me. But as of late, life has had other plans, and airplane episode and all, I’ve had to remain seated, breathe deeply, and adapt.
As someone who has been physically in motion for the last 30 years, it’s been unnerving to be physically grounded for the last few months due to injuries. As I try to uncover the right treatment to support healing, I’ve had to find a way to greet each day that doesn’t revolve around adrenaline rushes from early morning runs and monthly ultramarathons. But more than that, being grounded has left me without my morning ritual to take in the world and process where I am, what I feel, and where I’m going. It’s only recently that I’ve come to accept slowing down for the gift it is – a time out to tune in. An opportunity to be still and ask myself questions that I wasn’t getting to amidst all the motion.
Along with my physical pause, losing my dad in the past year has created emotional and spiritual road blocks for me. Hard as I tried, I could not tuck away my pain and march on. Grief is a companion that demands attention, like a heavy pack I’m lugging around that requires me to adjust, steady my footing, and choose my next steps deliberately. Grief operates on its own timeline and requires me to be present to experience my feelings as they arise. When it comes to writing stories, I’ve learned that endings are inevitable, and when they are not, it’s often because a step was missed along the way. The same is true for grief – when I cannot move forward, I’m learning it’s because I have unresolved issues I need to work through before I can arrive at my next chapter.
Divine Pause
I’ve come to accept this phase of my life as the Divine Pause, an intervention that emanates from a higher place to elicit a higher version of myself. Although I’ve tried hard to avoid slowing down, the Divine Pause has taught me when I’m not willing to pause, or missing the signals, life will intervene and force me to stop. This year has required patience and acceptance. I’ve acknowledged that as much as I want life to move at my pace, it does not. Constant motion and a full-speed ahead agenda oppose the flow of life, and limit awareness, intention, and reflection – all of which are critical for a meaningful existence.
The Divine Pause instructs that I don’t need to have all the answers on any given date. Space and time are all around me, offering me a lifeline and an opportunity to catch my breath to reset and refocus. When it’s time, I’ll either get back on the road I was travelling on, or choose a new one. Life is incredible that way: the future is as rich and vivid as our imagination, drive, and commitment. What’s clear is that there’s no path forward if I am not aligned with myself and the world around me. Processing the experiences of our lives is perhaps how we begin to understand ourselves, and explore the fears that hold us back, so we can begin to heal and grow into who we are becoming.
In his poem, “Fear,” Kahil Gibran writes about a river who “trembles with fear” before entering the sea. The river looks back at the winding and vast path she’s traveled and when she views the ocean, she fears that to enter it will make her “disappear forever.” The river, as Gibran shares, knows “there is no other way” – she must flow forward. But first, the river needs to embrace the risk. I’ve come to think of my Divine Pause as the calm before entering the ocean. What a gift to have time to reflect before I flow forward into all that will be.
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