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Vanishing Time

As I reflect on what happens during transitions, and what the start of fall and school and life changes means to the relativity of time, September is the month that disappears.

I’ve written before about time. But one thing that’s always fascinated me is how quickly time goes the closer we get to the end of something: the end of a ballgame, the end of the year, the end of life. Vanishing time makes things exciting or exhausting, sad or hard. As humans, we often feel there is never enough time. The effect of its relativity can also make it more challenging to stay present in the moment as we think about everything that seemingly needs to be done.

Generally, children are immune to that feeling. Days are longer. Years are longer. Wild imaginations and active play create the beautiful magic of suspended time. Reality pauses while they are immersed in those states. Being present is an aspect of a growth mindset, which makes a lot of sense when you think about children and how much and how quickly they are learning and growing as they are fully absorbed in something.

As adults, we sometimes refer to capturing that feeling as “flow.” We aren’t watching the clock or dreading the clock. We become unaware of it altogether. Capturing flow doesn’t pause anything. That time still vanishes. But playing or daydreaming or diving into something we love to do is how we would hope to spend the time we have here.

As I look to October and the rest of the year, I’m reminding myself of this: my time is not guaranteed just because time exists on a calendar. If I want to suspend the moment, I need to be present in that moment.

As you possibly look for your own ways to slow down the time-space continuum, I hope this simple reminder helps. Being *here* rather than thinking about what needs to be done when you get to an unpromised *there* makes both moments (here and there) more fulfilling.

You cannot fill up a moment in which you’re not fully present.

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18 Months

Tomorrow marks 18 months since the last “normal” Friday. Since the last day I sent my kids to school and child care without a mask. Since I did a public speaking event in person.

Today, Axel got on the bus. He started Kindergarten. Reese, a newly minted second grader, was with him, both as shepherd and chaperone. They had masks. They had new backpacks. They were so excited.

And here I am, with a full workday to myself, on what looks like a glimpse of the new normal, (although we all know it isn’t; none of us truly knows what that will look like).

I am all of the expected parental emotions: happy and sad and stunned once again at the blink of time that is parenting. I am worried about the regular school things (Will they make friends? Will they be a good friend? Will they like their teachers? Will their teachers like them? Will they learn what they need to learn?) And I’m worried about the now-regular pandemic things (Will they get sick? Will they lose their masks? Will they remember to wash their hands throughout the day? Will their teachers stay healthy?).

What has fully caught me off guard this morning, however, is the quietest of things: a simple bit of headspace.

For a few brief hours, however fraught, the day is suddenly mine. It has been 18 months since I even dared to consider such a thing.

The immediate reflex to fill this space with work and chores and social media and news distractions sits with me. It has become my autopilot. Yet, I see that for what it is: an easy means to escape all these other feelings and thoughts, things that very likely deserve some reflection of their own.

If you are currently set on survival autopilot, I wish you the space today to hit the pause button.

Yes, we all have so much to do. But there is also so much worth pausing for. And, at least for today, I am grateful to have liberty to choose the latter.

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The Transition Months

I don’t know how things are in your home, but we’ve gotten bumpy in recent days. And I have a theory on why. We just entered the Transition Months.

Yes, here in Minnesota, we have an entire month left of summer. Yes, the days are still long, the farmer’s market still bustles, the pools are still open. And yet.

We are also talking about school supplies. And who might the new teachers be? And will last year’s jackets still fit?

These short conversations have sent ripples into the ponds of imagination. Along with some excitement, I see nerves creeping in for both kids. Axel is starting Kindergarten, and that is a Really Big Change, for all of us. He is usually our peacekeeper, our jokester, our happy-go-lucky family member. But not of late.

We all sense summer winding down. We all know these changes are coming. August begs for closure and preparation for fall and school. But it also asks us to make the most of the remaining sunshine, of the opportunity to slow down just a bit longer. And September awaits, knowing so many new routines need to be created, new people need to be met, new fears need to be addressed.

It’s a lot. These are the transition months, not just of weather and time, but of our life rhythms and responsibilities, of rules and patterns and people.

A lot of unknowns float over all of us right now—enormous things beyond our control. None of that changes the cyclical truth that these months are always big months. Whether you have kids in your home or not, the social cycle shift of summer-to-fall impacts us collectively.

I am cutting myself and my family some extra slack this time around. Yes, things are bumpy. Yes, I think I know why. Sometimes, the most helpful thing we can do for ourselves is simply acknowledge that we’re in transition.

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Big Feelings

Today is the last day of First Grade for Reese. We’re having lots of big feelings, as a tumultuous school year comes to a close. We are so fortunate to have had wonderful teachers and a district that has managed an unprecedented-in-our-lifetimes event in an effective way.

Reese is excited for summer but very sad to say goodbye to school and her friends and teachers. It speaks volumes about an environment and its adults when a kid feels that way. Yes, she loves learning. But underneath that, I have to appreciate and look at the “why.” And it isn’t just our home environment; that love has come from a spectrum of adults who have genuinely leaned into making this situation work for kids.

The big feelings today of sadness about change, bittersweet feelings of good-bye to this chapter but excitement about the next, gratitude for the work the teachers have done, aren’t just being felt among the kiddos. I’m feeling them too, and I was caught off-guard by it.

A surprising effect of the pandemic and leaving a big company executive position to start Kind World is that it’s given me space to process emotions that I previously didn’t have bandwidth for. I have capacity to notice my feelings and to sit with them. To reflect on where they’re coming from and to put them in perspective. To slow down and cherish—yes, cherish—some sadness for a closing chapter, especially a good one.

I wonder how many of us are in similar situations? Finding space to feel things we didn’t or couldn’t previously process? Conversely, how many of us are in spaces now where that bandwidth is gone? Where there’s no room to process and so those big feelings keep piling up?

Social-emotional learning (SEL) has been a buzzword among education for some time now, and with good reason. But it’s also a real thing for us adults. We can’t help the kids in our lives with SEL if we’re not also doing some of that work. If you have the gift of time right now, are you using it to recognize some of your own big feelings? And if you know someone who could use that gift of time for some emotional breathing room, how might you create that space for them?

Happy, optimistic, sad, nervous, excited, wondering, curious, scared, relieved—experiencing these emotions means we’re alive. When we don’t have or take time to feel them, we’re missing an essential element of our existence. As I told Reese last night: being sad is a gift. It means we had a chance to experience something that’s worth missing.

Finding gratitude for change, after all, is a pretty big feeling.

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What Future Do You See?

I spoke on a panel yesterday about the future of publishing. Some of the theories my co-panelists raised really gave me food for thought, including the prediction that in ten years, publishing as we know it will be gone and instead become a function of all industries (rather than an industry unto itself).

After sitting with that somewhat deflating concept for a bit, I had not quite an epiphany but more so a reminder that the real truth of our futures is this:

We create what we envision.

Nothing we use today, have among us, get frustrated with, are awed by, are reliant upon isn’t something that someone envisioned.

We are not waiting victims of a predetermined future. We are creatures that live in a world and within social constructs that are completely of our own making.

Consider that. Really pause and think about it: for better or worse, our world is one we’ve built. We did not create the planet or its resources. But we’ve used (and abused) those things to build the ways in which we now exist.

And YES. We’ve done so many awful things to ourselves and each other (and the planet) as humans that are unique atrocities to our species. But we’ve also done wonderful things, created solutions to problems, healed, loved, laughed. We are completely capable of envisioning and building a better society for a healthier, happier, more equitable humanity.

How does that relate to the future of publishing? As one of my co-panelists rightfully noted yesterday: we are both the history makers and the storytellers. We are tasked with and privileged with the ability to share pictures of the past and paint possibilities of the future.

In publishing, we are not only creating doors and windows and mirrors by which to better see each other and ourselves; we are holding the crystal ball through which we can see different futures. Be conscientious of what you cast inside it.