a few weeks ago i was leaving the shop with the day's deliveries already planned. someone asked me to take one more package with me, and i said yes before i'd really listened to where it was going. i took it. my hands had it before the rest of me had caught up, and i was already half out the door. the first stop went fine. then i got to the one i'd said yes to. it was twenty-four minutes in the wrong direction, away from everything else i had that day. i went anyway, because it was in my car now and it had my yes on it. and on the drive over, not angry, just off my plan, i could see the exact place it had happened. not at the wheel, and not at the address. it was a little before that, as i was leaving, with my hands already reaching.
that's the whole thing i practice for, right there. the little bit of time between somebody asking me for something and me already doing it. i call it the half-second between the ask and the yes, because that's about how long it feels. i've never timed it, and i don't think anyone could hand me a number i'd trust. it's about as long as my hand takes to reach for something before i've thought about reaching.
the yes doesn't wait for me. i didn't see that for years. somebody asks, i say yes, my hands are moving, and the rest of me shows up a second later asking what just happened. so the practice can't happen after. after is too late, the package is already in the car.
i can't prove the gap is there. all i can do is say when i've stood in it, and when i walked right past it. the first time i stood in it was the night this started, with almost nothing left of me, and i knew exactly where i'd been standing. a very small place, a half-second before i give myself away.
the gap doesn't move. i'm the one who gets there late. one night this summer, one person asked me for two things. i said yes to the first one, and the whole time i was asking myself why. i went in circles about it for a good while that night. later that same night he asked again, and the no came out before i'd thought about it. the no didn't take the first yes back. it just meant i didn't give any more of myself away that night. same place, both times.
what the practice gives me, when my hand gets there first, is a half-second before i do anything. that's the whole size of it. the word on my chest says PRESENT, and the place it points at is this one. it's the only place i've found where i get to face the fear before it's finished talking for me. and the fear talks fast, and it always makes sense while it's talking.
the next time somebody asks me for one more package on my way out, i'd like to be standing in that place before my hands are.