It’s only a baby habit, just getting started, but I’ve decided to keep a time chart, noting on my (paper) calendar what I’m doing and when.
Time flows differently these days, it eddies and it stalls and sometimes it swirls by so quickly that I barely see the ripples it leaves behind.
So rather than wondering each day, where does the time go, I will try to chart it as it flies.
A noble experiment, yes?
We’ll see.
As temperatures plunged into the 20s, we brought in the ferns and the spider plant and the cactus. They are hunkered down here where temps are in the upper 60s, heading for a high of 70 once the furnace moves to its daytime setting. Because some of the plants are so large they must be moved in on little dollies, they will stay inside now till spring.
But I will add a wistful note, a plea to the weather gods. It’s nothing personal, nothing against the plants themselves. But I hope it won’t be long before they can be outside again.
One of the things I like about travel is that you move through time as well as space. You recover lost springs and leap ahead to crisp autumns.
On Monday I strolled through the Columbia City neighborhood of south Seattle. It was sunny and cool, and I snapped a photo of a gnarled and mossy tree with crimson leaves.
My head was still spinning from the flight across the country — an unusual tail wind meant we made the trip west in less than five hours — but it was alert enough to register this place, this northern place, as already ahead of us in the march of time.
Not to get too meta here, but writing this blog is largely a seat-of-the-pants enterprise. Most of my life has been tightly scripted until recently, so I’ve wanted to keep this writing loose and open.
I’ve also resisted the temptation to draft a bunch of posts on the weekend to carry me through the first few busy days of the week. The details of the day are my inspiration, and they usually (kinda sorta) pull me through.
But recently, I’ve found myself writing several posts a day. This may be, probably is, a momentary thing. Inspiration tends to go in cycles, I’ve noticed. And it is undoubtedly made possible by the gift of time.
Whatever the reason, though, it’s meant that, for the first time in forever, I have a few posts “in the can,” as we liked to call them back in my magazine editor days.
They will come in handy on the days when the muse of daily inspiration is otherwise occupied.
Not on roses, actually, but raindrops on the leaves of the elephant ear plant. Raindrops I first spotted a few weeks ago when I was out walking Copper on a moist morning.
I marveled at the way the liquid pooled on the surface of the giant leaves, thought to myself, you must snap a photo of this.
But I came inside and immediately forgot the impulse. By the time I remembered, it was too late. The sun had warmed the leaves and the moisture had evaporated.
The artistic imperative strikes when it strikes. It does not linger. Luckily, it rained again.
I’m up early enough today that the morning is still getting to know itself. Crickets have yet to turn in; their chirps form the rhythm section for which bird song supplies the melody.
Copper has not only gone outside but has scampered down the deck stairs, an accomplishment no longer guaranteed and thus appreciated more. And in other pet news, when I uncovered the birds, Toby, the newbie, had found the highest perch and looked quite pleased with himself.
I hear bluejays and crows calling as I rise from the couch to make my tea. The back door is open. The back yard is mowed. Reading and weeding await me.
The details of a day I’m privileged to watch unfold.
(A photo I took Saturday, a few miles from home.)
A day’s drive out, a day’s drive back and three days in my hometown leave me in a state of addled contentment now that I’m back home. Throw in some nostalgia and amazement — from visiting with folks I haven’t seen in 10 or 20 years (numbers we toss around as we used to the single digits) — and you have a lovely way to end the summer.
Or is it ending? It will be 90 again today, the cicadas are crescendoing and the humidity is creeping up as I write this post on the deck.
Given the opportunity, I’d probably keep traveling and keep sweltering another month or two, but September is almost here — September with its call to purpose and purchase. It’s time to harvest what I’ve sown.
(Joe Pye weed in a Jessamine County, Kentucky, field)
I’m only two months into this new phase of life, taking a measure of its contours, trying to figure out if time will pass more quickly now that I have a slightly less crammed-full schedule or if it will slow down instead.
I’m hoping for the latter. Which is a good sign, I guess. One wouldn’t want to slow time down if time were hanging too heavily on one’s hands.
But what if the opposite is true? What if the days and weeks are still winging by? What if the chunks of free time are still not roomy enough? Am I being greedy? Am I asking for the impossible? After all, I’m not 11 years old and on summer vacation.
Patience, I tell myself. The long afternoons are on their way. Just not yet.
For someone recently retired I haven’t exactly been twiddling my thumbs. I didn’t intend to be idle but I did expect to experience brief periods of thumb-twiddling, cloud-gazing or even some good old-fashioned afternoon ennui.
Nothing of the sort has happened.
In part, this is because — in what seemed smart planning at the start but I now realize was the exact opposite — I spread out long-overdue appointments and errands so that no day was too full. As a result, there have been almost no days that are open enough for cloud-gazing or thumb-twiddling.
Even a planned business phone call can bisect a day, can puncture its purposelessness. This from a person who used to pride herself on how many to-dos she could pack into 24 hours.
Lo, how the mighty have fallen.
(I borrowed this meme from a Jeff Speck newsletter.)
The sound of children laughing two doors down, birds rustling and roosting in the azaleas, the clatter of plates being cleared. It’s 7:30 p.m. and as bright as day. It’s outside-after-dinner.
When I was a kid I’d be excused early with cookies to go, then run to meet playmates from next door and across the street. We played SPUD and Red Rover till the streetlights came on.
For my own kids, there were long evenings catching fireflies or climbing hay bales to ride the zip line from the big oak on the Riley’s side of the yard (which is still standing) to the big oak on the Voegler’s side (which is not).
Now we sit on the deck slapping at mosquitoes, putting off going inside. There are grownup tasks awaiting us — bills to pay, emails to send. But it’s hard to abandon the soft light and the feeling we’re getting away with something. It’s hard to leave outside-after-dinner.
