To be able to hold opposites in my mind is the only way I can balance the concept of what time means to me: it is simultaneously a construct — not real, and it’s also the way we mark everything — so it’s the realest measure of life that we have in a modern sense. Years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds… how many do we get? And further, how much time do we spend trying to decide whether or not we all get our fair share? It’s hard to remember sometimes that we don’t get to decide. Not usually.
Maybe one’s amount of time on earth is directly related to how that time is experienced, and therefore to how waiting or not is experienced. When we are small, and haven’t had many years on the planet, things seem to take forever and we bargain with the universe to make Santa come just a little earlier, or to make school go ahead and get out for summer because we just can’t stand one more warm day sitting in the classroom. When we’ve been here a while, we at some point start to say, “slow down, slow down,” and we bargain again — let this long weekend last a little longer, keep my children young, don’t take her away just yet, give us one more day…
I’ve never been good at waiting. I don’t know a whole lot of people who are. But what has become clear to me in recent years is that whether or not I’m good at it hardly matters — nothing much happens on my timeline. All of my to-do lists, calendars, plans, tables, and charts only serve as comfort. I’m not really in charge of anything.
Damn. What a relief.
Still I say, “slow down, slow down…”
Happiest of Wednesdays to Y’all.
Lots of peace and love.