Funny thing, time. Like most folks 50+ (and I'm way beyond that!), I want to slow things down, to make the weeks and months, and, yes, years last. I want to check off the items on my bucket list one by one.
But since this pandemic, I'm finding that a difficult proposition. I mean, it can be a real challenge to sit inside on the umpteenth rainy, ugly day and come up with some task--particularly, when you've already cleaned all the kitchen shelves, organized your closets, cleaned out your drawers, put all the family photos in albums, taken way too many Zoom classes. So, I'm counting the days until my son and friends can come into my house, when I can get my hair cut (Let me tell you: the hairdo I'm sporting ain't pretty), see my physical therapist (My back is killing me!) and, yes, vote in November. November? What happened to summer? I love summer. I never want it to end. I loathe the day when we "fall forward" and lose an hour of daylight. Why do we do that, anyway? But here I sit, looking at my calendar, counting off the days as if I'm fat and pregnant.
I need to get a grip. Maybe do the slow, intentional, mindful yoga walk around in a circle several times every day to increase my energy and positive take on life. Maybe I should start to paint. I can't draw a straight line. (A painter friend suggested that might be a plus.)
I mistakenly rinsed my watch yesterday when washing the dishes. There's a milky cloud hanging over the dial, making it a strain to see the time. I think it was a sign: I'm not sure from whom. But I'll take it. Slow down. Breathe. I still have a lot of time ahead--well, maybe not a lot but enough. November will come before we know it.