On doing one thing, and doing it slowly

I made tea this morning without doing anything else, and it took four minutes, and I want to tell you that those four minutes were longer than the hour that came after them.

This is not a small claim. I have spent years arranging my life so that nothing ever happens alone — the kettle boils while the mail is read, the walk is taken while the call is had, the meal is eaten while the day is planned. Each thing was made shorter by the company of the other. I thought I was gaining hours. I was only making them thin.

So: one thing. The water, then the leaves, then the waiting, then the cup. Nothing rescued from the waiting. Nothing borrowed against.

You will tell me this is inefficient, and you will be right, and I will tell you that efficiency is a fine servant and a poor host. A day is not a container to be filled to its edges. It is a room, and a room is mostly the air in it.

Make one thing today, slowly, and let it be the whole of what you are doing while you do it. Write and tell me what it cost you. I suspect the answer is nothing at all.