Most days I move at a pace akin to a border collie herding sheep. Sitting still isn't what I do, but I'm very keen on the idea of it. Friday morning, after unplugging from my entire office for the weekend, I declared to the rooms in the house,
"I'm planting my butt with this cup of coffee and I'm not getting up until it's empty!"
"Who are you talking to?", Miles sang suspiciously from his bedroom. I am becoming the mom who makes audible declarations to no one in particular.
Somehow I tend to imagine that I have more time than I actually do. I wake up thinking that this day is just beginning! I have an entire day ahead of me to fill or not fill with whatever. I. choose. Within the construct of meeting the needs of The Two, of course.
And then, as easily as the sun rose at daybreak, it begins to slip away. We just had breakfast...is it snack-time already? Oh geez, Dad's going to be home in an hour-what the heck are we having for dinner? Are all of the sleepers in the laundry? How did that happen? Didn't I just do the wash...? I have to get to the post office!
When my great-aunt passed away years ago, my grandmother held onto some of her things for me that she thought I'd like to have. Among them, a beautiful, ancient quilt, some creepy little porcelain dolls that I love, and her wristwatch. My aunt Velma was a woman who was always moving, it seemed. When we'd visit, she could be found hoeing and harvesting among giant rows of tomatoes and pole beans in the garden or stirring bubbling pots in the small kitchen while ten little dogs yapped at her swollen, calloused feet. My people are Indian Okies and no one could accuse them of lacking in color or callouses. Yet, I also remember her propping those same chubby, bare feet up on a giant upholstered ottoman to slurp coffee and tell stories.
I'm not sure when the watch stopped working properly, but by the time it got to me, it's delicate little hands appeared to be stalled completely. When I'm in workaholic mode, as I've been all month long, I can slip this thing on my hand and clasp it's hinge for an instant dose of time standing still. Something about it helps me be more present and I care far less about what time it is. Once in a while, I'll notice that the minute hand has inched forward to the next number from where it was when I last saw it.
I don't dare try to wind it. This un-time piece has given me the gift of letting go of fretting about from point to point like the infamous, bespectacled white rabbit.
Best of all, I can hear the antiquated whisper of my hoarse, old aunt with her southern drawl, urging me to sit down a spell...and stay awhile.