I never seem to have enough time. Now this is a funny statement because I always have the same amount of time every day, so why do I feel I am short of time always? No, actually, sometimes I feel as if I have too much time on my hands. When I’m waiting on something I want NOW, time is a turtle. That “something” doesn’t have to be world peace, either. Ever watch me in the Chick-Fil-A drive-through waiting on something as simple as a chocolate shake? It’s stupid to be that impatient, but I can be, on a bad day.
Regardless, it’s not as if one day I wake up, check my Time Chart to see “Today you’ll have three hours,” and the next day see “Today you’ll have 3,000 hours.” No. Every day I have twenty-four hours.
So apparently I have a time management problem. Or perhaps more accurately I have a time cherishing problem. My minutes seem either to slip away or crawl away. They rarely just are.
The best timelessness I’ve ever known is in writing. No. That’s not true. I remember time stopping seeing Kate for the first time, covered in that white vernix coating newborns have. Tears and time stopping seem to go together. And I remember time stopping when John got off that plane from Korea; he was in my arms, and I hugged him forever—he smelled like baby pee and sour-milk spitup and was brown and soft against my chest. Hugs and time stopping seem to go together. And I remember time stopping when my fiance, Sean, pulled me off a sidewalk in London’s Bond Street shopping district and kissed me hard in an alleyway near Garrard’s jewelry shop, and I kissed him back in a city of seven million reduced to two. Definitely kisses and time stopping go together.
If I cherished time more, wouldn’t timelessness be the norm? Timelessness always breaks in when I’m not in a rush, when I’m open to the cup of coffee I’m drinking or the toothbrush I’m holding or the son whose ear I’m kissing or the teenager I’m listening to. By being receptive to them, my soul dissolves in attention directed outward. Every day this and that is timeless. That granola bar. This friend talking. That lunch with Gary Davis. This crispy french fry Sean cooked. That student asking me about how to apply for a Fulbright grant. This Owl City Fireflies song about earth turning slowly.
Writing, when done right, is a constant dissolving. Loving is a constant dissolving. The question is how do we survive this dissolving.
As humans how do we stay vulnerable and also strong?
In this moment of timelessness… I cherished your words. Thank you, Carmen.
All of your words are timeless to me! One day, I hope to be curled up in a cozy spot, sipping hot coffee, reading my favorite book ~Carmen’s Chatter.