(Warning: This post is philosophical. But it can also be practical. Read at your own risk of deep thought that might make you ponder the use of your time.)
Time is like water. Depending on the circumstance, time runs fast and hot or plods along, glacier cold. In 24 hours, time can change its speed again and again, up and back, a tide with no measured pace. How is this thing called time so malleable and elusive?
Happy time flows by in fast waves. On a phone call with a friend who we haven't spoken to in awhile, time moves quickly. At a holiday party, time ripples with laughter. In ambling and rambling words with a friend over coffee, time slips and slides by. Good time becomes fast time.
Anxious, unknown, and lonely time is solid cold, unmoving, unwilling to be pushed. To my friend whose one-week-old son fights a collapsed lung after heart surgery, time drips the pace of his IV fluid. For a mother whose seven year old is shot in Connecticut, time falls and rips in jagged, staggering, slow-motion pain. Sitting on the couch with a concussion, painkillers distort time like Jello. For the older woman whose husband died years ago and the kids are busy with their own kids this holiday season, time's shallow, wet surface barely moves. Slow time is labeled bad time.
We call fast time good and slow time bad. But what if it's not a matter of good or bad? What if it's a matter of how we use the time? What if it's really about turning what time we have --no matter what the length -- into good time? Is that possible?
Can the perception of time be changed? In the fight for a baby's life, each moment is a breath of prayer; each moment is a precious touch on his cheek of love where mother and child bond in the beauty of his breath on this earth. That's warm time. In the grief of a town, a nation and world pours compassion and love over the region...love that won't return the child but will perhaps change the tenderness and love toward our own children and those we touch today. That's warm time. On the couch with pain, moments of prayer and reflection lead to appreciation this Christmas for friends, family, and health. That's warm time. For the woman alone, a quiet walk outside, appreciating the color of the sky and sharing a kind word with the neighbor, a connection is enjoyed. That's warm time. So the perception of time can be changed.
This past summer, author Kevin J. Anderson changed my perception of time. I listened to Kevin present to our MFA cohort in the morning. I sipped coffee with him in the lobby at noon. We ate pizza in a booth at dinner. We chatted at the reading at night. And in between, when Kevin had an hour...or 30 minutes...or 15 minutes...he snatched those bits of time and wrote. In one short day, I saw how Kevin stretched time. He valued time's elusive moments and, as far as I can tell, treated cold, slow time like it was hot. As far as Kevin was concerned, time had value to be used, no matter how short or long, no matter how fast or slow.
Writing takes time. If we are to fit writing into the elusive moments of our lives, we must mentally control time's temperature.
How much time is "enough," to write? I suppose that depends not only on the temperature that you perceive it to be...but also on the value you place on each minute.
Time is like water. Depending on the circumstance, time runs fast and hot or plods along, glacier cold. In 24 hours, time can change its speed again and again, up and back, a tide with no measured pace. How is this thing called time so malleable and elusive?
Happy time flows by in fast waves. On a phone call with a friend who we haven't spoken to in awhile, time moves quickly. At a holiday party, time ripples with laughter. In ambling and rambling words with a friend over coffee, time slips and slides by. Good time becomes fast time.
Anxious, unknown, and lonely time is solid cold, unmoving, unwilling to be pushed. To my friend whose one-week-old son fights a collapsed lung after heart surgery, time drips the pace of his IV fluid. For a mother whose seven year old is shot in Connecticut, time falls and rips in jagged, staggering, slow-motion pain. Sitting on the couch with a concussion, painkillers distort time like Jello. For the older woman whose husband died years ago and the kids are busy with their own kids this holiday season, time's shallow, wet surface barely moves. Slow time is labeled bad time.
We call fast time good and slow time bad. But what if it's not a matter of good or bad? What if it's a matter of how we use the time? What if it's really about turning what time we have --no matter what the length -- into good time? Is that possible?
Can the perception of time be changed? In the fight for a baby's life, each moment is a breath of prayer; each moment is a precious touch on his cheek of love where mother and child bond in the beauty of his breath on this earth. That's warm time. In the grief of a town, a nation and world pours compassion and love over the region...love that won't return the child but will perhaps change the tenderness and love toward our own children and those we touch today. That's warm time. On the couch with pain, moments of prayer and reflection lead to appreciation this Christmas for friends, family, and health. That's warm time. For the woman alone, a quiet walk outside, appreciating the color of the sky and sharing a kind word with the neighbor, a connection is enjoyed. That's warm time. So the perception of time can be changed.
This past summer, author Kevin J. Anderson changed my perception of time. I listened to Kevin present to our MFA cohort in the morning. I sipped coffee with him in the lobby at noon. We ate pizza in a booth at dinner. We chatted at the reading at night. And in between, when Kevin had an hour...or 30 minutes...or 15 minutes...he snatched those bits of time and wrote. In one short day, I saw how Kevin stretched time. He valued time's elusive moments and, as far as I can tell, treated cold, slow time like it was hot. As far as Kevin was concerned, time had value to be used, no matter how short or long, no matter how fast or slow.
Writing takes time. If we are to fit writing into the elusive moments of our lives, we must mentally control time's temperature.
How much time is "enough," to write? I suppose that depends not only on the temperature that you perceive it to be...but also on the value you place on each minute.
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