🧘🏼 Five Minutes Is Longer Than You Think | How Small Moments Can Help Us Slow Down and Be Present

Five minutes doesn’t sound like much time.

It’s the amount of time we spend waiting for the kettle to boil, sitting in road construction, standing in line, or waiting for someone to finish getting ready. We often don’t even think of these moments as time that belongs to us. They’re thought of as gaps between the things we actually intend to do.

And because they seem too short to be useful, we often fill them.

We pick up our phones. We check a notification, scroll through social media, read an email, or look at the weather even though we already know what the weather is doing and going to do from the last time we checked. Five minutes can disappear without us really noticing that it happened.

But five minutes can feel very different when we don’t fill it with something.

When we stand still for a while, there is suddenly room to notice things that we might otherwise miss. We might hear birds in the trees or notice the wind moving across the water. We might watch clouds changing shape, feel the warmth of the sun on our face, or notice someone walking past with a dog.

Nothing particularly important has happened, and yet the moment doesn’t feel empty.

I think this is one of the things I love about slowing down. It doesn’t always require an entire afternoon with nowhere to be. Sometimes it can be a few minutes that we allow ourselves to experience instead of immediately trying to occupy.

A few minutes waiting for coffee can become a chance to look out the window.

A short walk can become an opportunity to notice the season changing.

Sitting outside for five minutes can be enough to hear the wind moving through the trees.

And sometimes a five-minute journey across the water can become a welcome pause in the middle of the day.

I was thinking about this recently while crossing the river on the cable ferry. The crossing itself only takes 5 to 7 minutes, but when I’m watching the water, those minutes don’t feel insignificant. There is nothing I need to accomplish while I’m there. I can look around and let the landscape change around me.

It’s a reminder that we don’t necessarily need more time. Sometimes we just need to experience the time we already have.

Five minutes won’t solve everything on a busy day, and it doesn’t have to. But it can give us a small break from the feeling that we always need to be moving toward the next thing.

That is what I find so comforting about these little pauses. They don’t require planning or money or a completely empty schedule. They’re already scattered throughout our days, waiting for us to notice them.

This week’s story, The Ferry Crossing, grew out of one of those moments. It’s a story about a short journey, the water between two shores, and the feeling of having somewhere to go without needing to rush to get there.

So the next time you find yourself with five unexpected minutes, maybe don’t reach for your phone right away.

Look around.

Listen.

See what is happening where you are.

You might be surprised by how much can fit inside five minutes.

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This story is called The Ferry Crossing, and it’s about a narrow stretch of river, the way to the beach, and a friend waiting on the other side.

The cable ferry is still on the other side of the river when I arrive, so I leave my car in the waiting area and step out into the late afternoon.

There are already a few people here, some sitting in their vehicles with the windows open, others standing nearby and looking toward the water. I’m leaving my car behind today because a friend is meeting me on the other side.

For some people, the ride across is simply part of a twice-daily commute, a quicker way to get to work or visit someone without driving all the way around to the bridge much farther up the river. For me, and for lots of folks this time of year, it’s a shortcut to tourist spots and different beaches, but it’s also part of the fun.

The ferry fills up on the other side and makes its way toward us, moving steadily over the narrow stretch of water between the two shorelines. From here it looks small against the river, but I can see the vehicles lined up on board, and every now and then I catch the movement of someone pointing out of their window at something along the shore. The crossing is familiar to the locals who use it, but people still find themselves swivelling their heads, following its progress all the way across.

The water is calm today, with just enough movement to catch the light, and the ferry leaves a long, pale trail behind it as it comes closer. I watch it approach the landing, making the same simple run it does all day, arriving exactly when it is supposed to.

As it comes to a stop, the ramp is lowered and the vehicles that have just crossed begin to drive off. One after another, they disappear up the road in different directions, and then it’s time for us to board.

I walk toward the ferry with the other passengers, following the signs toward the area for people on foot and bicycles. I find a place where I can see the water clearly and settle in against the railing for the short crossing.

When I’m on here in my car, the crossing is still part of the journey, but there’s more of a chance I’ll sit down further into my seat or even check my phone for no reason. I do try to enjoy the ride and the break, but I’m a little more removed from the feel of the boat and the water that carries us. It’s easier to take the experience for granted that way.

Standing here today, as I’ve done many times before, I can easily watch the river moving around me and beneath me. I can feel the breeze coming across the surface and hear the low, steady sounds of the ferry as it begins to pull away from shore.

The place I was standing just a few minutes ago becomes smaller as we move toward the opposite side. The road disappears behind us, and the familiar landscape takes on a different shape from here on the water. Houses and small buildings sit along the shore, tucked among the trees, and I notice how much of the riverfront is green and quiet.

The crossing only takes about five minutes, but five minutes can feel surprisingly spacious out here.

For these few minutes, the ferry is carrying me where I want to go, and there’s nothing I need to do but watch.

The breeze is cool enough that I pull my arms a little closer to my body, even though the day has been warming in the sunshine. I watch the wake spreading behind us in long, widening lines, and I notice a gull circling above us before gliding onward.

Being on the water makes the surrounding world feel quieter, even when there are other people nearby and the ferry’s motor is running.

A cyclist stands with a bicycle beside them, looking toward the bakery on the other side. Someone else closes their eyes into the sun. A couple of people lean with their backs against the railing, and for a few minutes we’re all floating across the river together.

The opposite shore is getting closer now.

I can see the place where we’ll arrive, and somewhere there my friend is waiting. I picture the rest of the afternoon ahead of us: the drive toward the beach, the sound of the ocean, towels spread out on the sand, and having nowhere important to be for the rest of the day.

The ferry reaches the landing and slows again, bringing us gently in.

The ramp comes down, and the vehicles on board begin to move, one by one, until only those of us who walked on remain. I step off with the other passengers, carrying only what I need for the afternoon.

My friend is waiting nearby, as promised.

I slide into the seat, and we pull away from the ferry landing, following the river beside us. The road curves along the coast, and I love that we’ve already started our outing before reaching our destination. We didn’t just meet in a parking lot and drive to the beach. I crossed water to get here.

The road we’re on is familiar, and soon we’re talking about which spot on the beach might be quietest today, whether the tide is in or out, and how long we might stay. There is no real plan beyond spending the afternoon at the ocean.

The beach is not far away now, but I'm not in a hurry to get there.

The ferry gave me time to slow down in the middle of the journey, and somehow those minutes have given the afternoon a different rhythm.

I wish you sweet dreams.

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