Tuesday Morning, Eleven Windows Open on My Screen

Ten thirty on Tuesday morning, and there were eleven windows open along the bottom of my screen. A draft report, the revision request from yesterday, the meeting schedule, two half-written emails. I'd open one and fix a few lines, and a messenger alert would go off. I'd switch to that window and reply, and another window would start blinking. On the taskbar the titles of the windows kept getting shorter, until later I couldn't tell which window was which task.

On Monday I'd let it go, because Mondays are always busy, but by Tuesday that excuse was gone. So this really is the pace of the whole week, I thought. My team lead asked in passing, "You'll have it by this afternoon, right?" and I nodded. Without even checking what exactly was due by the afternoon. Only after I got back to my seat did I notice that my palms were a little damp.

As it got close to eleven, it hit me. I'd been moving my hands nonstop since morning, and I hadn't finished a single thing. I had only touched every task a little. My mind seemed split into eleven pieces, just like the screen. I tried leaning back against the chair, but my shoulders were still leaning ahead toward the monitor.

Held, even while scattered

On my way to pour a glass of water, I opened still(). Through the pantry window I could see people in the building across the way, and all of them looked as busy in front of their screens as I was.

You will keep whoever’s mind is steadfast in perfect peace, because he trusts in you.

Isaiah 26:3 (WEB)

At first I hesitated at “whoever’s mind is steadfast.” Right then I was about as far from steadfast as I could be. But when I read it again, the keeping wasn't mine to do. “You will keep.” It read not as an order to produce peace myself, but as word that there is a place where I am kept. The sentence didn't shrink the morning's work. Still, in the middle of a mind in eleven pieces, it felt like there was something to hold onto for a moment. When I breathed out once, my shoulders came down about half a hand.

Back at my desk, I closed the windows one by one. I left only the report open and muted the messenger for thirty minutes. Each time I closed one, a small snag caught in my mind, but with every window that disappeared, the screen and my head both grew a little wider. Then I asked my team lead, briefly, which part exactly they needed by the afternoon. The answer was smaller than I'd thought. I started with that part. Once I finished a single line, the work that had been eleven things began, at last, to be counted one by one. The glass of water on my desk was already half empty.

Today's breath — Of all the windows you have open right now, keep one and close the rest. Breathe out once, and start with that one.