It looks like a wet fall morning out my studio window. It’s raining and since we didn’t do much raking last fall, the backyard looks as it did last October. What a winter. Just when I’d be thinking spring thoughts, I would wake up and look out the window and feel it was time to get ready for Christmas. Again. And again.
We usually have lovely relaxing evenings when I get home from work, but last night we failed to track down a bizarre smell in the house, Willow refused to let us replay an IPL cricket game we wanted to see and I got grumpier and grumpier. There’s never enough time. I know I’ll be complaining about this on my last moments on this planet Earth, but there are just so many interesting things to do and so few hours to call one’s own.
Some people at work think time is actually speeding up, something to do with a black sun. I myself wonder if the Cern Hadron collider where they are smashing atoms together might be having an effect. But I’m inclined to think this time speeding up is a well-known and documented experience of many of us as we grow older. Knowing that, however, does not ease the pain.
Many time management tools seem to chop my life into smaller and smaller fragments, each of them racing by faster than the last. The only thing that seems to help is if I focus on doing first some creative work that the deepest part of me needs, like writing words or music. For a couple of hours afterwards, the pace of the chores I have to complete seems reasonable, and the day proceeds at “normal” speed.
Unlike last night as we dithered with sniffing in corners, and reloaded error pages, and felt our evening slipping away.
Ah, well. Mars is leaving its retrograde phase. Today is another day.