This morning I woke to the sound of rain tapping against the window—not the dramatic storm kind, but the gentle, persistent type that makes you want to stay under the covers a little longer. I did. Ten more minutes of listening, of noticing how each drop had its own rhythm, its own small story of falling.
I've been thinking about the space between thoughts lately. Yesterday, I tried something small: instead of immediately reaching for my phone when I felt bored, I just sat. Just for two minutes. It was harder than I expected. My mind wanted to grab onto something, anything. A task. A worry. A plan. But I stayed with the restlessness, and something curious happened—it softened. Not disappeared, just... softened.
I made a mistake this week. I interrupted a friend mid-sentence because I thought I knew where their story was going. I didn't. When I realized what I'd done, I felt that familiar warmth in my cheeks. But instead of rushing to explain myself, I just said, "I'm sorry, I cut you off. Please continue." They did. And I learned something new about them I wouldn't have if I'd kept talking.