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Category: time

The Bells

The Bells

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I found a new online Mass this morning, the first one to pop up when I did a search. One of the ways it  recommended itself was by the playing of church bells at the opening.

In earlier times, the sound of bells was far more a part of life. Bells marked times to rise and work and pray. They commemorated the passing of lives and eras.

Of course, now we are in unusual times, but even in pre-pandemic days I seldom heard church bells. In fact, my church was taken to task for their modest bell-ringing. As a result bells are rung shortly before services for a couple minutes at a time.

Thus are we deprived of one of humankind’s more sonorous sounds — and of the reminders they provide us.

(The bells of Notre Dame during an exhibition in 2013.)

Quickly

Quickly

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As I watch two of my daughters go through pregnancy and motherhood together, I try to explain what it feels like. “You were once that size,” I say, pointing at my grandson. “And now you’re having babies of your own.”

They smile and laugh. They get it. Sort of. 

But not really, not yet. They think it’s passing quickly. They don’t know what quickly is yet. But some day,  I imagine — I hope — they will. 

(Photo of moonrise in North Arlington, taken as I was leaving the girls after a virtual baby shower.)

Most of All

Most of All

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Yesterday, I read an entire book. The title isn’t important. Let’s just say it wasn’t War and Peace. But it’s worth mentioning because it’s been a while since I’ve read a book in a day, and it was satisfying in and of itself.

I must clarify that by “day” I mean 24 hours, which includes reclining in the hammock on a perfect late-summer afternoon as well as reading in the middle of the night, unable to sleep — with the latter a more common condition than the former, I’m sorry to say. But still, the words were digested, the book was read.

What this means, what I’ve known all along, is that reading is one of those things I’ll find a way to do no matter what. It’s one of the things I love to do most of all.

Me Time

Me Time

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People always want “me time,” said the calm voice emanating from the screen, but we actually have a lot more of it than we might think. The way to retrieve it, he said, is to live mindfully, to stop thinking two steps ahead of ourselves to what we will do after the thing we’re doing now. 

When I heard this during my guided meditation session today, little fireworks went off in my mind. Not because I’m always clamoring for “me time,” a phrase that frankly makes me cringe. But because I know, in my heart of hearts, how much time I spend spinning wheels and riling myself up over nothing. 

It’s largely to still those wheels and quiet that worried, one-step-ahead-of-myself feeling that I’ve sought the solace of sitting still and focusing on my breath. I am still so poor at it, though; I can barely make it 10 puny minutes before giving in to rumination. 

But the sudden awareness that freeing thought is also freeing time — understanding the power of that equation — well, that will make me try harder from now on. 

Rough Winds

Rough Winds

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Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May 
And summer’s lease hath far too short a date.

So go the third and fourth lines of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18, which begins with the lines “Shall I compare thee to a summer day?/Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

They’ve been in my mind lately as the brisk winds continue to blow and the gray clouds continue to blot out the sun. It’s been one of the coolest springs on record, and is beginning to bother me — not that there’s a thing I can do about it except try to see the positive side.

And that brings me back to Shakespeare. Because the buds, though shaken, are staying buds longer than usual. They aren’t flowering and fading as quickly as they would if our temperatures were topping 80 each day.

A cool spring may try the patience of one who loves warm weather, but it will, for a few days at least, keep time at bay.

(If the bottom photo looks blurry, it’s because the wind was indeed shaking these fully bloomed knockout roses.) 

Sunday’s Rhyme

Sunday’s Rhyme

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Monday last was frantic-paced
Tuesday slowed, was still a race.
Wednesday came and went so fast
And Thursday zoomed by in a blast.
Friday to-dos meant more working.
Saturday had no time for shirking.
So now we have the Sabbath Day…
I hope to slow down, fi-nal-lay!
(With apologies to the nursery rhyme.)  
Day 21 and No Novel?

Day 21 and No Novel?

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The headline caught my eye yesterday. “We have a lot more time now. Why can’t we get anything done.” What’s happening with that novel? Where are those sonnets?

They’re no further along than they were before, perhaps because we’ve lost the usual markers that make us more efficient, says the time management expert who wrote the article. Or perhaps — and this explanation is infuriatingly accurate — we just don’t have the will.

The author, Laura Vanderkam, quotes the caption of a recent New Yorker cartoon: “Day 6. Couldn’t decide between starting to write my novel or my screenplay. So instead I ate three boxes of mac and cheese and then lay on the office floor panicking.”

Not exactly my life — but the windfall of time I thought would appear without commute, appointments or social engagements has not exactly materialized. I’ve tried to figure out where the time has gone. I’ve slept a little more and cooked a little more and worked a little more. Could that be where the days and weeks have gone?

Maybe living through a pandemic is not when you should expect to get caught up on all your creative pursuits — as well as staying in touch with friends and family and strategizing grocery store runs like battle campaigns. Maybe I should be content with whatever words I can eke out of the day, and with this as with so much else … simply soldier on.

(This is an old photo of stickies pulled off page proofs I read with my old job. But they remind me of — sigh! — completed tasks.)

Late Light

Late Light

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After a late light evening, a late dark morning. The drive I normally do in full daylight I did today in the gloaming, with the glow of an almost-full moon to guide me.

It’s no matter. I’ve experienced this enough by now to expect the shift and roll with it. The missing hour of sleep is another issue. In my experience once you lose it you seldom get it back. The long catch-up snoozes do little to erase the deficit.

Nevertheless, I look forward to acclimating soon. I want to be awake and alert to enjoy the endless afternoons, the dusks that go on forever, the sense of possibility that late light can bring.

Blank Slate

Blank Slate

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It’s the first time I’ve been home in the morning light since I pruned the rose bush, and I sit at the kitchen table looking at the results. There are fewer branches, to be sure, and there is a clarity, the beginnings of new growth.

How I wish I could bring that clarity to other tasks at hand: to the boxes and shelves and hidden corners of my house. To the jumble of ideas in my brain.

What’s required is the kind of careful, methodical approach I used last Sunday. That requires time … and space. Long afternoons, mornings without appointments. The blank slate of an empty room.

Tick-Tock

Tick-Tock

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From where I sit I hear three clocks ticking. There is the familiar cuckoo from the kitchen, the breath-in-breath-out grandfather between the windows, and the “bim bam” on the mantel, the fastest of the trio.

Listening to them all at once isn’t confusing; it’s multi-modal. It’s the solidity of braided ropes, a hammock of sorts, holding me in place.

It’s the calm center in the midst of the action: like listening to a Bach prelude or fugue, where you search for each voice amidst the harmony. Or like jumping rope, double dutch.

It’s all about the rhythm, about three adding up to one. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.