From the Owner: the Luxury of Lingering

Friends, welcome to October.

As I thought about this month's theme—the luxury of lingering—one story immediately came to mind. So we're going all the way back to April of 2005.

I was a senior in college and, as any dutiful senior staring down the terrifying prospect of Real Life is wont to do, I had secured an internship in Washington, D.C. I was working at a nonprofit devoted to supporting and empowering women's voices—which, in retrospect, feels like a rather fitting place for me to have landed.

At the time, I was doing what college seniors apparently believe is completely reasonable: carrying a full load of classes, working as an RA in a dorm, leading chapel for my residents every week, completing an internship two days a week in D.C., and trying very hard to determine exactly what I was supposed to do with the rest of my life.

I was busy.

And because I was also a frugal college student, several of us carpooled to a Metro station and then scattered across the city to our various internships. This often meant I arrived in D.C. well before I actually needed to be at work.

At first, I filled the extra time by wandering around. I walked. I explored. I probably convinced myself I was being very productive by getting some exercise.

And then, a few weeks in, I discovered the United States Botanic Garden.

If you've never been, it is an absolute treat. In the middle of all that concrete, traffic, noise, and the particular sensory experience that is the D.C. Metro, there was this beautiful glass building absolutely overflowing with life.

You'd walk inside and suddenly there was green everywhere.

Plants climbing and spilling and reaching toward the glass. Fountains running. Classical music playing. Fresh air that smelled like something was actually growing.

It felt almost absurdly peaceful compared with what I'd just stepped out of.

And somewhere inside, I found a little bench.

I started going there whenever I arrived early. I'd sit and read a book or my Bible. Sometimes I'd journal. Sometimes I'd pray. Sometimes I'd close my eyes and listen to the music and do absolutely nothing—which, for my 21-year-old overachieving self, may have been the most radical option of all.

Eventually, I started going after work sometimes, too.

It became a ritual: step out of the noise, walk into something living, and stay awhile.

I didn't have language for it then, but I think I was learning something I've had to relearn many times since: there is a particular kind of luxury in allowing a good thing to take up more time than it absolutely needs to.

Not everything needs to be efficient.

A cup of coffee can last an hour. Dinner can stretch long past the point when the plates have been cleared. You can sit in the garden after you've finished whatever you came there to read. You can take the longer walk. You can stay at the table. You can order dessert.

You can linger.

And strangely, when I think back on that very full season of my life, I don't remember most of the things I was rushing to accomplish.

But I remember that bench.

I remember the fountains and the music and the feeling of being surrounded by something green and alive in the middle of a city that, at the time, felt anything but restful to me.

Maybe that's part of the invitation for October.

Not necessarily to overhaul our lives or suddenly become women who move serenely through every morning with a cup of tea and nowhere to be. (I, for one, will not be achieving this.)

But perhaps simply to notice the places where something good is already happening—and resist the urge to hurry on to the next thing.

Find the table you want to stay at a little longer. Take the walk. Finish the chapter. Sit on the bench. Let the conversation run late.

And maybe, sometime this month, tints can be one of those places for you.

Come in. Put your phone down. Choose a beautiful color. Let someone take care of you for a while.

There's no prize for getting through the good parts quickly.

Stay awhile.