I don't think I'm alone in experiencing this phenomenon. The whole time is fleeting conundrum has been around since forever. But I am caught off guard by it anew today.
I signed onto our blog for the first time in weeks and glanced at the family pictures. There we all are: happy, tanned, and grinning in the midst of our summer fun. Which makes it even more ironic that today I seriously debated turning on the heater for the first time. (We didn't. I just told everyone to put on a second layer.)
Where did the days and weeks go? As we did school today and I helped with word problems and verb conjugations, studied caverns and mapped Ohio, explained binary compounds and listened to piano practice and readings, the time seemed to go so slowly. It didn't drag and it certainly wasn't boring. (Unless you count the three loads of laundry. They were relatively boring.) Yet I know that I'll blink and it will be Saturday.
I often find myself wondering if time will always move so quickly. And then I try to make a conscious effort to pay better attention to the people and the sights around me. Occasionally I wish I had taken time to enjoy our gardens this year, as we'll move in the spring before they bloom again. And yet, if I missed the gardens in order to spend more time with the family, is it really such a loss?
What exactly is time? Is it just the ticking of one second into the next combined into groups to make a minute which marches on into hours, days, and weeks? Or is it something more fluid? Is time an investment which gives us moments to make a lasting change which will, in a sense, stop time?
As I read through John & Abigail Adams book of letters I am struck again by the lasting impact their lives had on our country and myself. I admire their courage, their unity, and their Yankee gumption and I am forever grateful that they chose to save so much of what they wrote. It seems that they found a way to slow time down, if not stop it completely, in their letters.
This week, we received a copy of a recipe from Scott's Great-Great-Grandmother which was measured by hand and cooked on a woodstove in a double batch to ensure there was an entire pan for the dogs. Has her time really ended if I am still cooking her recipe and teaching my children about the days before electricity and supermarket dog food?
Tonight, I feel like time isn't so much a foe to be beaten back before wrinkles, gray hair, and an empty nest overtake me. Instead, it is a series of moments during which I have endless choices of how to spend it. It is my quiet encourager reminding me that I do not have forever and that I have to chose carefully and thoughtfully.
Of course, the day-to-day goings and comings will still occur. I will get up in the morning and take the children to piano after their breakfast. And we'll continue to read, conjugate, and figure.
But I'll also work a little bit harder to find those impressionable moments and grasp on tight. To set the laundry down long enough to look into a little one's shining eyes while they tell of an adventure or to give a shoulder to a teenager who is struggling to find a way to explain how they are feeling. To laugh and smile and visit more.
Because that is what they will remember. They'll remember the eyes and the hugs and the laughter, not the conjugations. And in their memory, we'll be happy.
And, perhaps, time will be forever.
I signed onto our blog for the first time in weeks and glanced at the family pictures. There we all are: happy, tanned, and grinning in the midst of our summer fun. Which makes it even more ironic that today I seriously debated turning on the heater for the first time. (We didn't. I just told everyone to put on a second layer.)
Where did the days and weeks go? As we did school today and I helped with word problems and verb conjugations, studied caverns and mapped Ohio, explained binary compounds and listened to piano practice and readings, the time seemed to go so slowly. It didn't drag and it certainly wasn't boring. (Unless you count the three loads of laundry. They were relatively boring.) Yet I know that I'll blink and it will be Saturday.
I often find myself wondering if time will always move so quickly. And then I try to make a conscious effort to pay better attention to the people and the sights around me. Occasionally I wish I had taken time to enjoy our gardens this year, as we'll move in the spring before they bloom again. And yet, if I missed the gardens in order to spend more time with the family, is it really such a loss?
What exactly is time? Is it just the ticking of one second into the next combined into groups to make a minute which marches on into hours, days, and weeks? Or is it something more fluid? Is time an investment which gives us moments to make a lasting change which will, in a sense, stop time?
As I read through John & Abigail Adams book of letters I am struck again by the lasting impact their lives had on our country and myself. I admire their courage, their unity, and their Yankee gumption and I am forever grateful that they chose to save so much of what they wrote. It seems that they found a way to slow time down, if not stop it completely, in their letters.
This week, we received a copy of a recipe from Scott's Great-Great-Grandmother which was measured by hand and cooked on a woodstove in a double batch to ensure there was an entire pan for the dogs. Has her time really ended if I am still cooking her recipe and teaching my children about the days before electricity and supermarket dog food?
Tonight, I feel like time isn't so much a foe to be beaten back before wrinkles, gray hair, and an empty nest overtake me. Instead, it is a series of moments during which I have endless choices of how to spend it. It is my quiet encourager reminding me that I do not have forever and that I have to chose carefully and thoughtfully.
Of course, the day-to-day goings and comings will still occur. I will get up in the morning and take the children to piano after their breakfast. And we'll continue to read, conjugate, and figure.
But I'll also work a little bit harder to find those impressionable moments and grasp on tight. To set the laundry down long enough to look into a little one's shining eyes while they tell of an adventure or to give a shoulder to a teenager who is struggling to find a way to explain how they are feeling. To laugh and smile and visit more.
Because that is what they will remember. They'll remember the eyes and the hugs and the laughter, not the conjugations. And in their memory, we'll be happy.
And, perhaps, time will be forever.
1 comment:
Great, I feel exactly the same way about time. You articulate beautifully! --Dawn
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