I looked at Eric across the table. We had been talking for a while, and it was now almost time to leave.
“You know I spent time in Nepal,” he said. “I was in the Peace Corps.” He paused. “I’ll tell you a story.”
I leaned forward. I’m always fascinated by other people’s stories.
“There were two of us volunteering together in this village. We heard of a monk who was about two days’ trek away, and we decided to visit him. The villagers offered to take us there. When the day finally arrived for us to go, my friend fell sick. So, I decided to go on my own. I was curious. The monk, I heard, had been an engineer but gave it all up to live in this cave. Many people went to visit him. As I was leaving, my friend said, ‘If he’s that wise, ask him where space ends.’ Sure, I said.”
I imagined Eric and his friend in their early twenties, just like I had been—invincible and smart.
“It was a long trek, and finally, I arrived at the monk’s cave and residence. Many people had lined up to see him. Finally, I got my turn. The monk, to my surprise, spoke perfect English. As I turned to go, the monk said, ‘Space ends where time begins.’ That’s when I suddenly remembered the question I had forgotten to ask.”
Space ends where time begins.
Hearing Eric’s story reminded me of a conversation with a friend not too long ago. A recent grandmother and caregiver for her ailing mother-in-law, she was juggling many roles. In addition to being a grandmother, she is a mother, spouse, daughter, and daughter-in-law. It’s a long list of roles and labels. She found herself asking, “When will it be my time?”
Have you ever asked yourself the same question? When will it be my time? Time for my dreams? Yet, you might have answered as my friend did: “I don’t even know what I want anymore! I don’t even know who I am!”
I was touched by the honesty of her words and the sense of despair in her voice. There was also the feeling that time was slipping away—that there wasn’t much left to pursue her passions.
The frantic, anxious pace of life often kills the space for conversation, for connection, for a story, for feelings, for the mystery of the unknown. Despite being together, the space between us can shrink under the weight of impatience and responsibility. The wisdom of the monk’s words struck me then: space ends where time begins.
There is a stirring from the depths of my soul that I recognize happens a few times a year—at the start of the year, in spring when I regroup, and again in the fall. These are times when I desire to reinvent myself, to commit to a habit change I might have postponed or failed to follow through on. There are years when the decision to reinvent myself came from the depths of despair, and other times when it didn’t seem so hard and felt exciting and welcoming.
I’m sure you’ve felt the same. Which begs the question—do dreams expire?
As women, we spend so much time being caregivers and fulfilling the roles and expectations of society that we lose ourselves in the process. How do you start rediscovering your dreams? Can you dust them off the shelf and resurrect them? Whose permission are you waiting for?
Your time is now. Take a moment to sit in silence, to create space for your thoughts. Reflect on what lights you up. What would it look like to give yourself permission to dream? Let’s start small. Write down one thing you’ve always wanted to do but set aside. Let it be the first step in reclaiming your space and your time.
Space ends where time begins.
So, let time be your ally, not your enemy. Create the space to dream—and then take the time to make those dreams real.
