Why is it our Gregorian calendar sets us up for expectations as we turn the calendar another year forward? Who made that deal? The world is full of their own calendars and I honestly have come to believe, that each one of us—our own cosm of sorts—has its own calendar; its own ticking clock. For example, many of us seem to think we start our new year on our birthdays, and if you pause, well, you certainly cannot argue with that. I am of the thought we start a new year with every breath we take and sometimes, even quicker than that, with every thought we make.
Time is its own poetry—we live without second hands; we fret without minute hands; and by the hour, we check our cell phone; our social media; our wrist watches, just to be told we’re great; mistaken or yes… time is passing. But time is not linear, right? But is it vertical?? I am not certain, but I am aware, for me personally, I have a romance with time.
I was raised with the notion of time. Being the youngest in my family, and the youngest by a stretch I may add, I was always bringing up the rear. “Come on Robin, it’s time”: time to go; time to brush your teeth; time to get dressed; time for breakfast; time to go to Grandma’s; time to get in the car; time to be quiet for a nap; time, time, time…. It seemed to never end. Time is also crafty, it messes with your psyche—it stops; it flies; it heals; it’s your friend. When I was but a pip squeak, my sister used to watch over me in the summers. I loved swimming and I used to ask her every summer’s day, when can we go swimmin’? She would say in an hour. When you are 6, you might remember, an hour could be a month…. Or at least feel like it and, while I am on the subject, a month could be a lifetime. And so I would ask how long is that? And she would look at me, fed up, and say count to sixty, sixty times. Not certain how to count to sixty, sixty times, I became acutely aware of time—and that I had the power to augment it: or so I thought. Yep, time…. How does one live without it?
I remember lying in a dark room and hearing the ticking of the bedside clock during naptime. I remember hearing the chimes at night, from the dining room, just before breakfast time. I remember learning my Roman Numerals, from my Grandmother’s Grandfather’s clock. Time seemed to surround me as a little kid… and as I grew up, I lost track of it. Well, now I am about to turn 62 and it’s returned, bigger and bolder than ever.
I have come to realize, that I have unconsciously filled my home up with time pieces. Some chime; some cuckoo; some tick; some tock—one even has sands of time.
My Mother, 91 doesn’t seem to worry about time. She told me not that long ago, why would she? She’ll know everything when that time comes. Oh yes, “when that time comes.” It made me wince a bit. Because as I tumbled those words, I thought, we all live in different time zones around the world, making time for family, love, appointments—but when THAT time comes, we all share in its celebration and sorrow, whether it is our time or someone else’s.
I’ve decided that for good reason, time is worthy of my attention, still. There are mortal responsibilities which time tends to—I can live with that. I can see my life built around it and it is built around me. I understand the romance and I don’t think I want to live a life without it. I don’t mind a vacation… but it is like a big hug—it sings to me, it reminds me I am on track, when I lose my place in life’s line; It rewards me with engagements, sometimes planned; sometimes not. And on that note, I suppose it’s time to wrap this up, so you may get on with your day.
While reaching for some silence,
In the distance I hear Bach;
With secrets tolled to everyone,
With the ticking from my clock.
At noon, it tolls I’m resting;
At one, tolls I’m awake.
At two? I warm the water
For the tea I drink with cake.
Three, it tolls I’ve polished lips;
I put fragrance on my knees:
As my lover is about to come,
And satisfy my pleas.
At four, I hear the door knob
Turn slowly at its chime;
And I lay down on the parlor chaise,
To breathe in double-time.
The clock, it is relentless
Ticking moments of my life:
It cuts me to my heart and soul,
Just like a carving knife.
At five it tolls with forte’
To the people in the square:
She’s bawdy and ungrateful;
And she doesn’t even care.
At six, the clock stops in its tracks;
Its pendulum stands still:
And a wind blows through the velvet drapes
With a cold and deadly chill.
I cry aloud, where has time gone?
Don’t leave me all alone.
Don’t take these minutes of my life;
You’ll leave me brittle boned.
I find the key and wind it;
Leaving love dead on the floor:
For lust is but a moment;
It is time that I adore.