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We're (also) here on a Monday because my newsletter tech is being a jerk, and I've just resubscribed some people who were forcibly unsubscribed. If you feel you should NOT be getting this newsletter because damnit you hit unsubscribe, could you please please please hit reply and tell me. I will delete your data forthwith and continue trying to solve this forced unsubscribe issue.
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Maybe I'm out in time
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Last week someone said, briefly, that time had sped back up and that the days of endless pandemic were really and truly gone. Time became normal again. I've been thinking about time ever since. The shift we feel in time as we grow older. Or the way time stops for longer than you might imagine when you experience trauma. How time is both fast and slow depending on where your brain is at on any particular day. Time, friends, is a fascinating construct we've created for ourselves.
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A few years ago I had a month or two phase in which I read several books about gardening and how indigenous people relate to nature. I recall feeling quiet for a moment, connected, together. Non-plussed. I am not what I am supposed to be at the moment. I am abstracted, anxious, anti-calm. My eyelid is flickering.
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There are times when it doesn't matter that I don't have motivation or purpose because I know that my purpose is – this is true whether we feel it at the moment or not – to just be until I no longer am. That is the only purpose we have. Everything else is irrelevant in the chronicles of time. Then there are times like the present, where I don't know quite what I'm doing or why, and I just keep going because the alternative of just stopping and letting time wash over me with no rhyme or reason is terrifying.
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There we are. Back at time.
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Maybe I'm late
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You might have noticed that today is not Friday. It is, instead, Monday. So time has gotten away from me. Here's what happened:
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I had a busy week at work and didn't find time to write you. Usually when this happens, or when I lack inspiration during the week, I use Friday morning as quiet time to write. Last week, on Thursday afternoon, out of town friends called to say they were coming by spontaneously for a couple of nights and that they'd be there in a few hours. So on Thursday I ate, drank and was merry. On Friday I went skipping through nature and recreating Michelangelo famous painting the Creation of Adam with a little punk rock 14 year-old who reminds me of me at that age.
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Then, on Saturday, I got a touch of my OCD and needed to spend 3 hours cleaning an 8 square meter bathroom. Then, I needed to envelop myself in the freshly scrubbed bathtub and read a lot of trash on the Internet. On Sunday I needed to ride my bike, and now we're here.
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The only person who puts pressure on me is me. No one else expects anything much of me anymore. I still try to live up to the expectations I imagine you have of me.
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Maybe I need help?
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I've noticed that when I spend my time with people I care about I'm much more likely to be remembering that purpose I was just writing about. Just be. It's enough. The thing is, though, I don't spend enough time with all my people. Some of them, year, but there are so many more all over the world. My people. I miss you all.
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