Spare Time

Spare Time

I hadn’t even realized that I thought about spare time in the same way I thought about spare tires—something extra, something to fall back upon, something to bring into use when the things you had been counting on blew out. Small wonder, then, that my spare time got taken up with work, or chores, or other obligations. That’s what the spare is for, right—to keep you on the road.

The other morning, though, I glimpsed another possibility. The day before, I’d finished up a project, sent it off, and stuck all the related files back into the closet. The bills were paid—those envelopes and checkbooks stashed into a drawer. So, I was greeted with an empty desk as I stepped into my office with my coffee on that quiet morning. Just a quiet empty space awaited me. This was the moment I remembered that other sense of spare—plain, empty, like a monk’s cell spare.

I remembered telling Girlfriend, when we talked of what I wanted from this year of much-less work: “I want to get to that feeling of those huge long summer days away from grade school. When every day seemed big and empty, and perhaps a little dull, but soon enough you find some way to fill it, from yourself—I want to rediscover how I’d fill my days, if I could ever get them emptied out again.” It’s taken longer than I thought it would—eight months—but here I am, of course it’s August. If I was 10, the pool would finally be too warm to be inviting, I’d be sitting in the blue chair in the den, pondering the empty day: all this spare time.

This year, I’ve rediscovered what it’s like to walk through days with my mind free to think about the books I’m reading—to try on the ideas, or wander through the novel’s world. I’ve had the chance to visit with ideas, like visiting new friends: an encounter, then some time away, and then another afternoon, perhaps with coffee or a notebook. I’ve realized how crowded I had let my mind become—how all the notions and responsibilities competed for attention, how rarely I allowed myself to simply sit with just one thing.

In the beatitudes, Jesus says the “poor in spirit” are among the blessed ones. Someone told me poor in spirit didn’t mean downcast or broken hearted, which is what it sounded like to me. Instead, the poor in spirit were the single-minded…that made me think of “spirited” in the way we use it about horses—sort of feisty, prone to fighting, not particularly on track. I wonder now if I’ve misunderstood again, and if the poor in spirit are maybe those with empty space—with some spare room in their hearts: a little plain, not over-decorated, just this side of hospitality. A room to welcome something unexpected in.

As for me, I find I am protective of this empty and undecorated time. I don’t miss the bursting at the seams, the wealth of things to do, the noise of obligations and responsibilities. It reminds me of the Sabbath in sabbatical, it convinces me that rest, recuperation can be two different things.

The curve of Autumn’s in the air—I feel it on my face when I go out, the softest touch, like of the back of someone’s fingers on my cheek. It has me thinking about what comes next: maybe school, and how to come back into work. But I don’t want to rush this long lush summer. I don’t want to lose this stretch of emptiness. I don’t want to—never ever—lose this new appreciation of spare time again.

[To read about all whom Jesus calls blessed, see Matthew, chapter 5.]