Time: Arbitrary but Undeniable

Last night, I wanted to finish the previous blog post. I'd been trying to write it for several days, and I kept running out of time. After two days of helping my grandmother and one day of the Writing Group and all the other day-to-day tasks that come into play, I hadn't been able to sit for ten quiet minutes to write.

I handed the baby to Doug, to Aleyna, to Kyla, and said exasperatedly, "Please, let me finish this." They tried, but, of course, it was late, and the baby wanted to nurse and cuddle. *sigh* "Just let me have a few minutes, and then I'll take him." _Ghosthunters_ was coming on shortly, and I didn't want to miss the beginning. (I record it, of course, but still it's the only show I watch...)

Lance jabbered in my ear while I struggled to edit--one half sentence at a time. I begged him, kindly, to "just let me finish this." He read to me from his new Shel Silverstein books that he'd wheedled me into buying. (Hey, if he wants to read, am I going to deny him?!) I listened, my mind half on the words I clamored to get back to. I laughed with him when he finished, and Doug and I helped him figure out the harder words. His face shone with delight...he loves reading, and he loves to laugh.

"Let me finish this...I'm running out of time."

Then Mikyla comes in to tell me about her day. I don't envy her going to high school....that was a time I'm glad is over. I do enjoy listening about her (melo)dramas, and who said what to whom....but last night, I wanted to finish editing the blog and get it posted. I listened to her bemoan that her audition didn't go as well as she'd have liked. (She's rarely happy with anything she does, though. I took her worries with a grain of salt.)

Finally, I just gave up and hit "send". I read it today, and it's choppy and doesn't read as well as I'd like, but sometimes the time comes to move on.

Every day flies by, like a roller coaster gaining speed, and at some point (not yet), the ride will slow as it goes up the hill to the end. Then time will be sluggish, thick, heavy to get through, no babies to change, no melodramas to hear about, no tiny fingerprints to clean up. With Drake's birth that "slow climb up the hill" was pushed off several more years. I'll be 58 years old when Drake graduated from high school. An unexpected cog in the gear of time.

In the meantime, though, some days (or simply some moments), I long for peace to write, to fall into the never never land of other characters, other times that I've wanted to write about for so long. Throughout the first years of our marriage, I did write, then the kids came. I taught writing, which helped fill the void, but I wanted my own words. After teaching, I was too tired and too drained to put words to paper. Now, though, time doesn't stop. Postponing writing isn't an option. I'm coming to a midlife crisis. It's because of my mom.

Shortly, my time here on earth will be as long as the time my mom had here. She had 42 years, 3 months and 10 days to do the things she wanted to do. And she lived life. She did the things she wanted to do as much as physical and financial limitations allowed her. She spoke her mind and didn't bulldozed anyone who tried to hurt her or her family. People either admired her for her kind heart and determined personality or they despised her for her outspokenness and refusal to back down when she felt strongly about something. The first were blessed, the latter don't know what they missed. Her time was short but stuffed with so many blessings and challenges. (My time with Gram is making me appreciate these more.)

Time is too short to not *live*, and, yet, it's so arbitrary. We make up time. We change time. There are no numbers on the sun and the moon to tell us what time it is...we as humans illogically made it up so that we can live in polite society. Yet, we can't make it go any slower. We can't bring back time.

I keep begging Gram to write down her stories in a little book I bought her several years ago. She tells me, "I will one of these days. I want my great grandbabies to know me since I don't know anything about my grandparents...I will do it before I die." I must admit, it's not before she dies that I am afraid of--it's before she forgets...

Today I opened up my e-mail, and I read, stomach clenched, about a man I only knew from one of my e-mail lists and as a friend on Facebook who had been killed by a drunk driver yesterday along with his sons and nephew. He was a year younger than I am. His sons and nephew had Cystic Fibrosis, and it was a good day for them, so he took them to the batting cage for a fun trip out. They were killed on the way home. His last post on FB was how happy he was that the CF "monsters" were away.

I could ask, "Why?" but that never gives an answer. Was it by some horrible chance or divine design? Who knows? And, really, who cares? So senseless, so unfair for his time to be cut short.

Or my friend who was killed a few months ago or her husband who died a few months before that.

We don't know how much time we have.

So, yes, I wanted just a few more minutes to finish yesterday's blog, but I'm glad that I did take the time to listen to the kids. I still got to watch _Ghosthunters_. I watched it after they went to bed. There will be reruns too. But the kids are only little once.

I want--need--to enjoy them before it's too late.

I don't want to run out of time...

Poems I've written on Time.

A day in the life of a writing student and housewife

Between classes and feeding the dogs

I wonder how I will write.

The baby cries because I don't hold her

While she drinks her bottle--

it's about time to break that habit,

but who has the time?

The telephone rings--it's one of those pesty

Telemarketers again trying to sell me window shades.

The doorbell rings--

I forgot the carpet guy is coming to measure!

A sad sigh and a shake of my head,

I pray for a twenty-fifth hour.

All I want is a poem, not a short story

and only in dreams do I work on a novel.

As the baby sleeps the dishes glare at me to be done

But class work beckons when I sit at the computer

so I don't look like some lazy freshman tomorrow

who hasn't figured out you have to do your homework

to make the grade.

My guilt too overwhelming to caress the keys

with words from my heart.

As I carry the laundry basket up the stairs,

the sunlight outside draws me to write,

but too much needs done.

The baby needs a bath; the bills need paid;

the bank needs called about the check they said

never arrived to pay the mortgage.

Lunch needs made--Dinner needs made.

Always something keeping me from the keyboard--

And the release of the storylines I have floating

In my housewifey brain. Just to answer the questions

the characters drill me to ask.

The clock ticks on and finally

The husband comes home.

When I look for him for comfort,

I could almost kill him when he says,

"Honey, did you get any writing done today?"

--Tori L. Wilfred (c)

Taking the Time

I want to do

Nothing

—have a staring contest

with my favorite cat,

Wish upon the closest star

at noon,

Blow kisses to the evening

moon and

the beginning of one more

satin night,

Set free butterflies

shaped like words

from my mind

to sing to the wind,

Whisper God’s speed to a

young brown toad and

Bellow at bullfrogs

who want company.

I want to share

Nothing

With my daughter

Before she doesn’t have

time to do

Nothing

with me.

© 1997 Tori L. Wilfred