Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in*

Thank you, dear Presidents Washington and Lincoln, for being born in February and giving us this federal holiday. First day off in over a month, and wow, do I need it.

Having a day with no clock demands is the secret to almost everything. Oddly enough, I still get a lot done, but I am significantly more grounded and calm. Routine is helpful, yes, but I am consumed with the regimentation of it, and I end up spending endless energy managing the system and not the content. When I'm not watching the clock for the next landmark (or staring with panic at the minutes slipping away) am fully present. Perhaps I just need to turn into one of those people who are unpredictably late and otherwise undependable :)

(*Henry David Thoreau)

Losing Myself in my Work

It would seem like a good thing. It conjures up images of immersion in something that is exciting and rewarding; of letting go of all of the habits and fears that get in the way.

Possibly all of those things are true, and yet there is a trap.

During almost half of every calendar year I lose myself in my work, and when I emerge, it feels like a sad and scary mistake. The work itself is wonderful, and of course, the devil's advocate position is that it might not have been so wonderful had I not given up my soul to it. The ongoing challenge is figuring out whether it's worth it.

The things that make us most valuable to the people around us and the circles in which we travel are those things that are at the core of our beings. Our instincts, value systems, courage, hearts, and souls. When I lose myself, I lose traction with all of those things. I draw upon them, but it's mostly a one-way transaction. And when I step off the treadmill, I find them in short supply, replaced by anger, fear and sadness.

The only parallel experience was that of raising my children. But that trade-off was voluntary and conscious, and the potential rewards loomed large. A couple decades' worth of sacrificing chunks of my sanity, health, and desires to those of my kids was part of the bargain. An investment of sorts; not the kind with a guaranteed return, but one that demanded to be made. This is similar but somehow different.

It's a useful skill to be able to switch off personal feelings, opinions, and desires. It certainly clears out all of the noise and facilitates focusing on work that needs to be done. But I actually kind of like that woman who gets buried deep inside the machine. And when I struggle to be reintroduced to her, I find that I missed her more than I knew.

Sunday Before Work

Every day should start like this.

Rested, after a day off and a dreamless night's sleep.
Slow enough for stretching.
With sunshine in the garden, still in its late spring uncomplicated prepubescence.
Filled with unhurried time at the piano.
Offering slow time in these beautiful spaces built by someone I love.
In the wake of a visit from loved ones, who are happy and healthy.
Knowing that my children are finding their way into their own lives.
Without hurry.

Stop Time

During the fragments of my musical life when I would need to make down-and-dirty charts for percussionists, I picked up a few basic terms. "Stop time" meant that the tempo proceeded apace, but the drummer would temporarily suspend whatever percussion pattern had been established. Stop time allows something else to come into focus briefly - vocals, keyboard, bass, etc - before returning to business as usual.

As the name of the blog suggests, I am currently obsessed with all things time-related. The drumbeat that is life pushes us on, for better or worse, and I certainly don't wish for a full stop. I just need for the beat to silence itself periodically. The tempo moves on, but the urgency dissipates, and the pulse floats by on the air.

What the Monkeys are Saying

I am no stranger to Monkey Mind. Mocking the quest for tranquility, the monkeys swing relentlessly from branch to branch, careening from thought to thought. I don't know when the monkeys took over, but I suspect it was very early on. And the signs that their hold on me is strengthening are getting easier to spot.

My life seems to have chugged along fairly successfully in part because of my monkey mind. Multi-tasking, we call it on a good day. ADD when it gets out of control. Its rewards are many and not to be scoffed at - high productivity, breadth of knowledge, wide-ranging experiences, quick response time.

Yet, the tree-swinging must at least be put in slow motion.

It was foolish and naive to believe that by the time I reached this point in my life, I would turn into one of those people who spends her days in cleansing breaths and clarity of mind. Just like all of those extra pounds, the skirmish with the monkeys will probably always be with me. So lately, I picture them dropping one by one into the forest - first with panic when they let go, then dissolving in laughter when they hit the cushiony trampoline at the bottom.

Rather than shut them down completely, I've been lately listening to them first, trying to get to the bottom of their persistence. And surprise, surprise, there is an overwhelming theme. It's so violently against the grain of what I believe that it's hard to acknowledge and harder to address. So patience is in order. I will sit with their message for a while, let it wash over me, and hope that clarity emerges.

Crying in the Paint Aisle

My mom was the one who could see. Who could create beautiful things with her hands. Who knew how to make her environment lovely.

She made almost all of the aesthetic decisions about my home for my entire adult life. Painting the walls, choosing the wallpaper, making the curtains. Because she was good at it, and I was lost in it. It was a happy marriage. Now that she's gone, and it's once again time to attack interior design, I am completely lost. And so I stand in the paint aisle at the Home Depot and cry.

This is when I would've called her, and she would've talked me through it - from the overwhelming color choices to the stupid gloss/satin/eggshell/matte decision. She would've clucked a bit at my inability to grasp it all, but been happy to ply her expertise.

To the extent that I can traffic at all in things like gardening and home decorating, I owe it all to her. Since she's been gone, I live between two extremes. Either to admit that these talents were truly hers and stop dabbling in them myself, or to continue to honor her memory by applying what little I managed to absorb. I know what the solution is. But like all children - grown or not - who have lost a parent, I really want her to take care of it instead.

Scratch the Surface

There are waves beneath the surface. Often they churn for a very long time before breaking through. I'm not surprised by them, just by their persistence. And also by the way I resist giving in to them.

Repression, they call it. I come from a long line of private, quiet stock, and we're not good at giving in to our emotions. Most of the time, it seems like a good idea. Perhaps it isn't a bad strategy in the long run, but sometimes I envy those folks who allow the veneer to crack.

The days are too few and the years are too short, and somehow there's no one to keep us from wasting them.