Time

 

Last Saturday, my husband and I were walking in the hills above Red Butte Garden. As it often does when I'm out in nature, time disappeared. We'd probably only been there an hour, but it felt much longer.

 

"I think you missed your calling in life," said my husband. "You should have been a naturalist." 

"I wanted to be a wildlife conservationist when I was in elementary school and junior high," I told him.

 

He's very patient with me. I'm always stopping to take pictures of flowers I see along our way. I can't help myself. The flowers insist. He waits.

Have I missed my calling in life? What does that mean anyway? When is it "too late" to pursue an ambition?

The older I am, the more I realize how odd time is. On the outside, yes, there are evidences of time on my body, but I don't feel older on the inside. The older I am, the more I realize how young I feel, how little I know, about almost everything.

I wrote a sonnet about time last year on July 7th and posted it on Instagram:

Transforming Time

Sometimes perception says time's running out,
Pressuring, shrinking, hurry, and worry,
"Scarcity! Move fast!" we speed up and shout.
Flying, heart beating, eyes and minds blurry.
How is time moving if it is not real?
A relative tool, a frame that time weaves,
A series of moments, events we can feel,
Constructing a space of evolving ease.
Relaxing, I slow, and everything flows
Opening senses, allowing real play
The hours matter less, the room within grows
Awareness feels like a more peaceful way.
If we decide, make it lengthen or shrink,
We affect time by the way that we think.