90 Minutes

 

Once upon a time, 

There was a woman named 90 Minutes. 

90 Minutes got her name by spending 90 minutes of a 405-minute class talking. 

She dominated conversation

With stories, interruptions, and certainties that contradicted even the professor. 

When others spoke,

She didn’t receive their words. 

And so they wrote. 

And thought. 

And breathed. 

And prayed. 

And remembered a wise sage’s words:

She can be your teacher. 

Pay attention to what you can learn. 

 

And so they learned, 

With 90 minutes as their guide. 

 

They learned to remember that there are people who are truly opposite from them. Some people really care about scholarly things like history and word origin and statistics and data. When you don’t, you still need to give a scholarly nod to those who do. 

 

They learned to remember that some people process out loud and/or struggle with boundaries and/or self-awareness.

 

They learned to remember that some people have deep wounds that come out in wonky ways.

 

They learned to recognize that stress levels increase in their bodies when they hear crinkling snack wrappers and crunching during the middle of class. 

 

They learned to recognize but not judge their pride. 

 

They learned to identify their judgmental limits.

 

And they learned that, in general, they really are gracious people who give others the benefit of the doubt. And when they can’t, they at least have the intention of grace. And that intention can go a long way. 

 

Yes, they learned. 

And 90 minutes was their guide. 

 

She taught them everything they were not expecting to learn. 

 

And more. 

 

The end. 

Because I Forgot Yesterday Was Thursday...

...I didn’t write my Thursday note.

It was an honest oversight.

Really.

I completed my final 24-hour on-call Wednesday. I was awake at 6:30am that morning and began steady work at 9am. I didn’t stop until 4:15am yesterday. The time in between those hours was beautifully wonderfully terribly tragically amazing.

Needless to say, I left the hospital a little tired. I took a short nap yesterday morning, but I still sort of felt like a zombie the rest of the day.

I also went to the skilled nursing facility at which I volunteer on a day that I normally do not go. I had the privilege of introducing a new volunteer to “my people” and got to celebrate a dear woman’s 94th birthday. But it felt like Tuesday.

And so.

In my zombie-like state, I forgot it was Thursday.

And I didn’t write my Thursday note.

Naturally, I was surprised when my mom looked at me this morning and said, “You didn’t ever post your Thursday note?”

Blankly, I said, “Oh. No. I never wrote it.”

So I’m writing it now.

And I’m not saying much in the process.

Because I’m still sort of zombie-ized.

And I’m itching because my leftover beach sunburn is peeling and I’m sitting beside Bullet to whom I’m allergic.

But I’m writing.

And discipline is important in writing.
And in keeping the kitchen clean.
And the rugs that get covered with dog hair.
And the refrigerator that fills with leftovers.
And the car that fills with travel mugs.
And the belly button that fills with lint.

The end.