During my weekend walks under evergreens, roots woven into ground, bark mottled with lichen, trunks standing up to perpetual rain, I think about how time passes, free of judgment, outside of our constructs. I remark at the patience of stream water as it carves around rocks, the slow receding of puddles when the sun bursts free from heavy clouds, the joyful sounds of fat raindrops landing on the last of autumn’s foliage, sitting for a beat before sinking into soft earth.

Time passes in unpredictable ways right now, seeming to oscillate between the slow drip of a leaky faucet and the dizzying cascade of a waterfall. On those days when I feel at the mercy of time, I imagine myself as a raindrop, freed from its cloud to drift into a slow-moving stream. Floating, I keep my gaze on the horizon, knowing that I am moving in that direction, without worrying so much about how to get there. In that way, a boulder ahead becomes a suggestion rather than an obstacle. A curving embankment becomes a chance to deviate instead of forging ahead. The sudden pull of a rapid invites buoyancy instead of fear.

Photo by Mitchell Kmetz on Unsplash

In my last post, I shared how this prolonged twilight has released some hidden well of patience towards myself and others. One of the ways in which that is manifesting is giving myself more time to get places, to make the simple act of getting somewhere precious — because what a luxury, now, to have somewhere to go!

Flipping back through my journals (one of the only non-essential objects I packed for my cross-country move), I found the etchings of a stuttering poem about running late — a result of my poor time management and propensity for distraction (#GeminiProblems), but also of my need to pack every moment with activity so as to not waste the day. I call my version of FOMO an Irrational Fear of the Void (IFOV?).

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

It’s a silly little poem, but I think it’s indicative of how much circumstances wholly outside of our control can shift our internal landscapes. Yes, I dearly miss weekends that revolved around doing: flitting from group run to yoga studio to sunset park gathering to live music at the kind of warmly packed bar that symbolizes ‘before’. What I don’t miss is always closing in on my own breath, caught between initiation and following through, constantly apologizing for being late.

Here’s to making the most of time by expanding into it instead of letting it box us in.

Rush: a perpetual state of being

Telltale signs
that I’m late, again,
despite timed intentions.

Caught in conversation
I must
reply to each thought,
savour one more sip
of black coffee, swirled
in a small ceramic cup
at the kitchen counter.

heart electric
cheeks flushed
breath become ragged, my
pace accelerates.

I’m racing the clock
its angles unyielding.

Legs warp on ice, make
sidewalks crackle, laughing
at this sliding progress,
arms akimbo, airplaned:
an ungraceful dance.

those last few beats
when seconds stretch,
strides lengthen in
luminous slow-mo.

I stumble inside, breathless, just
one minute
when I was expected.

A rush of apologies
always accepted but -
dulled by self-admonishment.

Head down,
I’m the curt nod,
to her effervescence.

I’m the not-quite-here
sidling into that tactless space
between 00 and 01.

Writing from beautiful Vancouver about muddling through via intuitive movement 🤸🏽‍♀️ place-based learning 🌳 strong coffee ☕️ creative connection✨