What Time is It?

Time. Timeless. Out of time. All the time in the world. Just a matter of time. Take your time. All out of time. Time is meaningless. Nothing but time. If I could put time in a bottle.

The five minutes a puppy cries is somehow a much longer five minutes than the first five minutes of a spring hike in the woods. An hour in a pointless meeting feels like forever, but the last hour of the finale of your favorite tv show passes in the blink of an eye (minus the commercials). The ten minutes I gave myself to write feels like forever. Seriously - only four minutes have passed? And I had to check.

When you are little, time seems to go on forever. Christmas felt like it would never come. Adults start the countdown in October (September?) with dread in their heards. A day measured by the passing of the tides is so different from one measured by a stock ticker. Is how we measure time part of how we measure ourselves?

How many emails can I send in an hour vs. celebrating a sunset as it marks the end of another day. The found minutes are often the longest, savored in a way different than the scheduled ones. Those special minutes don't seem to exist without the scheduled ones, though. Nothing but time is often said as a regret. Filling those minutes in ways we feel represent us in some way is perhaps what makes us human. A successful phone call lasting less than three minutes is probably more satisfying than an afternoon spent on the couch. An hour cleaning out the kitchen cabinets trumps the weeks (years?) spent procrastinating.

Because time is precious.

Monsters Under the Bed

It's a well known fact that monsters live under the bed, right? A dark dusty place where you can't really maneuver - arms pinned to the floor, head tilted sideways. Monsters, with their glow in the dark eyes and triple jointed limbs will have the advantage every time. Even if there aren't any literal monsters there, it's still an unpleasant place to visit. Dust bunnies are real.

Over time, things often get shoved under the bed. An errant sock boldly leads the way. An old unfinished magazine follows. If you are the organized sort, a box of winter sweaters might have an official welcome party when it arrives.

It's the metaphorical monsters that haunt us. And they're down there too. The frustrations of a day. The words you wish you had said. Actions not taken. Insecurities you hide behind laughter during the day. Generalized self doubt. Generic fear of the unknown. These are the monsters that keep me awake some nights.

Over time, these monsters can accumulate faster than dust bunnies. Without doing a major room redecoration and moving out the bed, what's to be done? The vacuum attachment doesn't reach all the way under - where the monsters are definitely hatching nefarious plans with the bunnies.

Sometimes, you just need to man up and crawl under - arms akimbo and head askew. Face the monsters (wear a dust mask to avoid the potential allergy thread from the bunny family). "Yes," you say, "I know I messed up and ignored you. I allowed you to fester. I built all of you up in my mind until you were bigger and scarier than Moth-Ra ever was. I'm sorry, but we need to move on. If found you guys a great bed to haunt over at Salvation Army. Let's go."

Chances are, when you really confront them, examine them, put them under a microscope (and realize that they are all small enough to fit under a microscope easily!), you will see that they aren't so horrible or scary as you thought. Maybe you just got so used to them that you weren't sure how to let go. They will be happy to move on. Living under the bed isn't so great. Ask my cat. They'll be happy for a little sunlight and fresh air. Those dust bunnies were crap conversationalists anyway.

As an added bonus, your trip under the bed might turn up a few forgotten treasures. And we're not talking about that lost sock. Maybe there is a dream or two that you accidently stashed away - misfiled as regret. Gently coax her out. Like a scared cat, she might not trust you at first. Ply her with treats - reminders of the dream. Take her for a walk to see the first buds of spring or just give her a cup of tea. Let her talk. Give her a chance to remember who she was and who she can be now. Her time with the monsters has probably changed her, depending on how long she was down there. Give her a chance to work with you. You could be very happy together. If it isn't a good match anymore, you can always send her off to Salvation Army with the other monsters of what was.

The Perils of Checking Your E-Mail at the Museum

Smart phones, in general, have the opposite effect on humans. Can't remember? Look it up. No memory of a phone #? No problem. The phone knows. It's a great way of disengaging when present company is unpleasant. They are a gentle distraction where the mind goes to take a break. Alternately, it is a constant reminder of everything else you could be doing - you slacker! How dare you take time for lunch? This document needs to be approved and sent to the Zurich office five minutes ago! Or maybe, checking for messages is just a plea for attention - someone must want to talk to me/need me/be thinking of me, yes? I AM important. I matter.

Perhaps one should simply accept slacker time as such - or even elevate it to a learning moment. Go down that Wikipedia rabbit hole. Delve into the family structure and communication patters of bayou duck call makers. It is surely worth 100% of your attention, right?

But when work doesn't beckon, and you are by yourself, say, at a museum, surrounded by beautiful things and the goal at hand is to absorb said beautiful things what then? It is time to enjoy the fact that you have managed to get away to a museum on a Friday afternoon. You are playing hooky. All the errands are run. All the messages responded too. Nothing urgent is going to happen. The sun is shining and the galleries are almost empty. Why, why, why must I check my email then?

Why, while absorbing the creative and artistic genius of Giotto and his Florentine brothers must I check my email? Isn't the detail in that altarpiece enough? Have you not been transported to a candle lit church and an evening of devotion by the myriad passion paintings? Mesmerized by the glistening gold leaf of the halos on the saints  Isn't this the time to put aside worldly cares and look inward in meditation - of art of faith depending on your mood?

A single peak at the incoming distractions will do nothing but break your concentration. Take you out of the magical construct your mind has created. Away from the candle smoke and chanting priests and back to now. Why? You leave your universe behind. Feeling important in a harried kind of way by one message that could certainly have waited. Another gallery of glorious mid century photography glides by as your mind churns over new developments.Your attention fades. Plans resurfacing. Minds reconfigure. Out you go into now. The gardens and the dappled sunlight can't compete. The slow meditative breathing you acquired compromised by the pressure of a decision that certainly could have waited. The moment is over. The magic is gone.

And you still have to pay for parking.

Dog Thoughts

If you are a dog, happiness can be as easy to achieve as getting a fresh piece of dried pigs ear.

The Three AM Pee

It's time for the three a.m. pee. It is my turn to take out the puppy. Squeeks have turned to whines and if I don't hurry with my robe and slippers, full on howls can be assured. Here's hoping that the cat stays put in his perch on the bed. Baby steps for everyone involved.

Flood lights go on in back. The neighbor's party is still raging. Good thing I left in the ear plugs. ONe less stimulation. Is that rain? Steady mist. Not bad really if you have fur. Or a nice pink robe. Mr. Puppy is fascinated. Everything - everything is new. Doors are mysterious swinging monsters that open and close onto forbidden lands like "mommy's closet." The dishwasher is a growling, swishing monster to be scuttled past as quickly as possible.

But this rain business is amazing! Water from the sky tickling my eyelashes and going all squishy between my toes. Whee! Drinking in the drops beading on each blade of grass - tongue busy re-hydrating what was just expelled. The world is clean and new.

This Old House

Slowly saying farewell to an old house, one dust bunny at a time. Bring out the dust rag. No amount of cleaning will be able to dust away the memories - lifetimes lived, plans made and put away. The cracks in the wood floor provide more than just splinters. The wind whistling through the window asks you to remember the voices that laughed and schemed here. The foot falls of past parties, late night pacings, meals shared linger here - under the shellac of years and bitterness. 

A home for so long, and then a gradual decline. There are years of memories that are a complete mystery. Tenants having dinners of their own, laughter foreign to your ears. A house, but not really a home any more. Hanging onto memories in dusty shelves when your mind continues to paint colorful pictures of times gone by. That chair that wasn't really that comfortable, the undersalted quiche, the cheap box wine that didn't seem to matter. The uncomfortable conversations, the feeling of being not quite welcome. These don't go away. They are your memories. Other people have theirs. But responsibilities don't necessarily favor those with the best memories. And here you are. Conflicted. At the end of the day, you know you've done your duty, right? Sign on the dotted line, clip a rose or two and say goodbye. Fresh life needs to breathe here. Best get out of the way.