Wait to Respond

Tuesday Tidings #38: on racetracks, black butterflies, and the choice to be present...with myself

The early morning light barely trickles in through the windows in the sunroom. Half awake, I rub my crusty eyes, fill up a bottle with water, and dump the contents into the coffee maker. Next I push the “Brew” button in the center, and, after a short delay that feels like the coffee maker is pondering, cogitating, or mulling, the built-in grinder whirrs into action. It is loud. Really loud.

Soon after it comes to a stop, the water percolates up through the tank and fresh coffee begins to drip, drip, drip into the carafe. And the first wafts of a new day circulate through the air.

Meanwhile, I shuffle mindlessly around the kitchen. Just as I move a pile of papers from one end of the counter to the other, DeeDee (my roommate) appears. While she gathers her things, she gives me some instructions. Something about the flowers on the front porch. But I am only half listening. Not because I am disinterested. Not because I’m intentionally tuning her out. No, I’m not listening because I’m distracted. Sure, I’m still waking up. But it’s my mind that’s the issue. It is noodling on something that has no clear direction. Yet.

Just as I grab the same pile of papers to move them back to the other end of the counter, my phone screen lights up. My eyes immediately drop down to see what kind of notification I may have received. But all I can see are three numbers.

Without a second thought, I interrupt DeeDee and blurt out, “555!” To which her only possible response is, “What?”

“It’s 5:55,” I exclaim and hold up my phone to show her. “See? God Time.” Slightly bemused (or maybe confused), DeeDee goes back to whatever she was doing.

But for me, those three digits are a clear indication to stop…thinking. And get present. Not just with DeeDee—with myself.

I’ve noticed numbers—444, 333, 1010, 1111 etc.—for a long time. When I do, often, I grab a screenshot. Just check my photo album. Or my feed. But I rarely paid the kind of attention to those moments that would inform my next action. That kind of noticing, followed by a deliberate choice about what I do next, is new.

It’s not brand new as in just this morning. I do it every time that happens. It’s a small, seemingly inconsequential reflection of a seismic shift that has taken place within me over the last six months (not to mention everything that has happened over the last six years).

Now that I think about it, it’s less of a seismic shift and more like driving a race car. On a race track. Like the kind I learned how to drive in February 2021 in Birmingham, AL. The one I was sitting in the moment the email from my lawyer came through to notify me that my divorce was final. Yeah, it’s more like that.

Because driving a race car on an actual race track is not just about speed (which, by the way, is terrifying). It’s also about serious mental focus, the kind that ensures you’re alert and can react before you drive off the race track—or notice when you’re going too fast and might lift off when you hit the top of the small hill. But not the kind of focus that trains on your fears of the worst—those fears make you clench up, or worse, hesitate when you need to react quickly.

Somehow you need to thread the needle between what your mind thinks it needs to do (be afraid) and what is actually required of it to do—and when. That does not mean you actually do much (on the outside). Most of the time, you’re noticing and paying attention to your surroundings. Occasionally you press down hard on the gas, and then let up to flow through the turn. In other words, every action you take is deliberate and necessary but not forced.

That’s where repetition and recall come in. In other words, practice.

With each new lap, you begin to do the important things intuitively (while also keeping an eye on the dashboard) and drop the things that get in the way. In part because you realize that you can trust that the car (the tires, the brakes, and the engine) will respond in the moment. The car was literally built that way. So really, the hard part is to trust yourself (your reflexes, your intuition, and your decision-making).

Which is why I have often referred to that experience as a master class in meditation. Not grasping or clenching but also not idling. You take minimal yet necessary action. Everything else? Well, you let it roll. Literally.

(if you want to see dash cam footage of and me, in action, driving the Porsche race car on a race track in Birmingham, you can watch this video).

And that’s what I now notice myself doing, in one way or the other, every day—with the smallest of small things and the biggest of big fears.

When I got an unexpected (very large) bill, the anxiety gripped my chest and a pit formed in my stomach. But instead of obsessing about it or scheming for a solution, I wrote an almost three-page letter to the God of my Experience. I filled it with all my fears, and ended it with a list of actions I can take (or already have taken). And after I closed my notebook, I toook action on my part and trimmed more of the optional part of my budget. When I got a text from someone who was looking for a fight, instead of arguiging with them, defending myself or making myself wrong, I stuck to the primary purpose of this exchange, wrapped things up, and moved on. When I thought about reaching out to someone with whom there are some unresolved tensions, I opted to leave it alone. Instead of trying to fix it (my discomfort) right now, I sat with it. And when I wanted to expend a lot of energy chasing someone down in order to force a connection, I chose not to. Instead, I put that energy into my writing.

All of those choices are new. The circumstances, dynamics or patterns are not. In fact, some of them are as old as I am. Maybe older.

On a pit stop…not long before that email came through.

Last Thursday, I sat on the back patio with a cup of coffee. For the first time in a long, long time, the black butterfly appeared. (For those who have been here a while, y’all know what that means…for those who are new here, here’s a link to that backstory). When it appeared again on Friday, it sat on a flower close by me, unbothered by my proximity (or that of my camera). I have not seen it again since. But I did register it as the reminder I needed to go inside and map out, for myself, all the different things that have changed (in me) over the last six months.

To do that, I pulled out my collection of large and small sticky notes (some recently replenished), scribbled feverishly into them, and placed them on the wall in my studio. When I finished, I sat back and looked at it. I was amazed. Not just by the details—by the sheer volume of it.

Some of it came in fast, furious spurts that required me to push down hard on the gas in the straightaways. Some of it required me to take my foot off the pedal and let my momentum carry me through the turn. And some of it meant I needed to pull over into the pit lane to refuel, regroup and recharge.

All of it was a choice.

The most amazing part? Each choice was made in response to very familiar circumstances—individually and collectively, a retread of old ground (old ideas, old beliefs, old ways of doing things). Much like driving around a race track that does not change, I kept coming up on the same hazards, the same twists and turns, and the same straightaways.

But each time I accelerated through the straightaways, leaned into the bends, and embraced pit stops, I made a conscious choice. I did not take the bait, jump the gun, or force a solution. I didn’t do that to change who I am, but how I am—how I show up for others and for myself (with more spaciousness), how I allow myself to express myself (with less second-guessing), and how I make decisions (with more emphasis on what I want to do rather than what I think I should do or what others would do).

It’s not that I’ve changed. It’s that I do what comes naturally to me. I wait to respond.

Because, well, I was literally built this way.

Butterfly sightings last week, and on Monday, a Mourning Dove (I thinkg) feather by my patio chair...

Where in your life are you reacting, when you could wait to respond?

I would love to hear from you. Hit reply or leave a comment.

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Tuesday Morning Meditation: 7.28.26

Waiting to respond is not the same as doing nothing. It is getting ready to choose when, and how, to move.

Coming up:

And tomorrow, a new episode of the Stories That Sparkle podcast drops into your feed—my conversaton with NYC-based singer, performer, and all around sparkler, Jaclyn Dima. Listen in to hear the story (and more) behind her new single, I Won’t Dance For You.

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