In December, my son played his first band concert. Parents filled the folding chairs in the school gym. The students marched in, the boys all goofy and gangly, my son wielding a trombone and smirking at having untucked his dress shirt.
They stood at their music stands. The band director counted them in and—they played.
Which isn’t extraordinary. It was a band concert, after all. But five months ago—they’d never held these instruments.
They had just started, and here they were, playing.
It was a good reminder to me. You’re never granted a huge block of time, separate from everything else, to Do That Thing You’ve Always Wanted To Do. There’s not a big magical mythical weekend/summer/retreat when It’s Finally Going to Happen.
There’s just regular life with regular time. But it’s enough. 15 minutes. 15 minutes. 15 minutes—and you’re killing it on Good King Wenceslas.
One early morning of writing. One late night. One nap time. One preschool session. One hour of writing. One hour of writing. One hour of writing…
That’s all there is. And it's enough.
Here we go. And a one two three four…