Lately work has been banging along at a break-neck pace, and it's been all I can do to keep up.
Although it's hectic, thankfully it's really not too stressful.
What is alarming, however, is the speed with which time slips and slides by these days. I don't know if it's post-modern life, aging, or what, but I'm increasingly aware of how precious the commodity of time is.
I feel grateful to have made choices in my life that have placed me in a position where my time is being used well and in service to life and the universe. Even so, I find myself consciously fighting to carve out time to do the things that are fulfilling and rewarding to me.
Protecting one's time can feel like a selfish act. The truth is, though, our time here is finite. When it's gone, it's gone. What I value, and what's important for me to spend my time on may make no sense to anyone else. Nevertheless, I realize I've squandered hours and hours of my past on someone else's priorities, agendas, etc.
Every day is an act of creation from start to finish. Each choice is fraught with peril, potential, and adventure. How beautiful to be in the moment. To know it's all going to end sooner or later. These minutes, these hours, are the very stuff of life. How we occupy our time becomes the artifact of our existence on the planet (for this go round anyway). A cluster of memories, relationships, hopes, losses--tangled together for a brief moment in an ever rushing river.
I've experienced first hand the dark tight stretch of black hole time. Also, the obsessive wormholes of days lost at work. I'd like to melt my clocks like Dalí, and let the days move by like the mighty Mississipi, wide, wet, and slow...
Passion, beauty, and love, folks--24 hours at a time...
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