The roast chicken is in the oven, potatoes, and some steamed spinach. I just poured us two glasses of chardonnay.

I call out, “How much time till we eat?” Jenny replies, “Twenty-five minutes.”

Now what?

I have some energy, but not a lot. I don’t want to exert myself anymore today. It’s Me Time, a little snack-sized serving to do something for myself. How often life serves up these little gaps in the day, time I might waste by scrolling on my phone.
​

These are some of the things I did yesterday.

• Had a cup of tea while I read through my emails and winced at the headlines.
• Folded laundry while listening to the second half of the latest episode of 99% Invisible.
• I watched the “Soup Nazi” episode of Seinfeld while eating a sandwich.

That’s not everything I did yesterday, but these activities stood out because they have one thing in common.

They each took 25 minutes.

​

It feels like a natural time increment, maybe because I grew up watching commercial TV: Good Times, The Honeymooners, All in the Family, Mr. Ed. A half-hour sitcom minus commercials is 25 minutes.

So is one side of an LP. Ziggy Stardust. Thriller. Rumors. Born to Run. Two of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. 25 minutes spent pouring over liner notes and pondering lyrics.

Could it be ingrained in our cultural rhythm, the pulse of modern life?

Cognitive psychologists have figured out the amount of time we can typically pay attention before we lose focus: 25 minutes. Same with the flow state: our deepest concentration on a creative activity lasts on average for 25 minutes.

That’s why the Pomodoro technique recommends using a timer. Set it to 25 minutes, work on the task until the timer rings, and then take a five-minute break.

Incorporating 25-minute blocks into my routine works because it fits with how my brain naturally functions—short, intense periods of engagement followed by rest.
​

I wander back to my desk and open my sketchbook.

I spend the first five of my minutes getting set up, looking around for a subject, picking out a few supplies, sharpening pencils. I put on Miles Davis’s “Kind of Blue.” I decide to draw an elm tree in a meadow, mid October.

For the remaining 20 minutes, I am in the zone. By the time “Blue in Green” comes to its achingly tender conclusion, Bill Evans's unresolved chords and Miles’ horn fading away, I am lost in lines and color but coming back to earth.
​

What I made was just okay.

I’d run into problems I hadn't anticipated. Some of my proportions are messed up. I wasn't consistent with the amount of detail on the remaining leaves on the tree, whether to draw each branch, and how to mix certain oranges and browns with my box of pencils. And the subject was a little banal. An autumn tree. Ho hum. A bit Bob Rossian.

But that’s not the point for me. It’s the process I value, not the product. Those twenty-five minutes flew by, until I emerged, slightly dazed but refreshed, renewed, relaxed, with a minute or two to wash ink and colored pencils off my hands before we sat down to eat.

​

These days, twenty-five minutes is just the right amount of time for drawing. I achieve something — new skills, new materials, new ideas — but I don’t have time to get bored or exhausted, bogged down or perfectionist.

Sometimes, I run out of time before I run out of drawing. I have a choice: keep going until my tank is completely empty or stop half-finished. I leave the drawing board with some excitement and interest in reserve, knowing I can come back tomorrow and finish what I started with new enthusiasm and fresh energy.

Other days, I finish my drawing in 20 minutes or even 15 — but I don't get up. I spend the remaining minutes on another small drawing in the white space or thinking about what I just did, or writing down some notes about the thoughts that came to me while I drew.

And I ask myself why I finished under time. Did I rush? Was I distracted? Did I miss something? Was I not in the zone?
​

Twenty-five minutes means there’s no time for perfection. No time for inner debate. But, there is time to make a minor mistake here or there, time to learn a lesson or two.

Some days, I tell myself I don't have time to draw. The monkey in my head tells me I'm too busy, too tired, too uninspired, not in the mood.

But most days, I can find 25 minutes somewhere in the day to uncap my pen, bow my head, and go deep. It’s so often the best time of my day.

Your pal,

Danny