Oh, gosh -- I made my first post ages & ages ago; in the meanwhile we've sold our house & moved into a temporary necessary evil in the form of a small condo in a large noisy complex with a list of rules as long as a very tall person's arm. I never, ever thought I'd live in a big condo complex BECAUSE of all the rules. And now here I am, a renter, dealing with the anxiety of breaking rules & the consequences (in the form of $100 fines).
The above doesn't really have much to do with wasting time.... but how I tend to deal with situations such as the above has everything to do with it. I am an incorrigible procrastinator. I avoid things that I feel anxiety about. I didn't want to leave my home of 12 years, so I put off packing. The house was sold, but escrow hadn't closed & we hadn't found a new place, so why pack? My irrational mind said to me. And I concurred. Now that irrational mind is saying if we don't unpack then we don't have to admit we really live in this reviled little place (which isn't really so bad, otherwise why would it be packed to the gills with mostly happy people?).
So, I read a lot, post a lot (on just about every other place than this blog). I belong to a couple internet groups. I check other people's blogs - mostly for inspiration, and also for the sheer joy of seeing how someone else's mind works. I am in awe of how some people are so productive, while seeming to be on their computers, posting away merrily throughout the day.
Time. Time to get going, time to feed the animals, time to make breakfast (lunch, dinner), time to do the dishes, the laundry, time to walk the dog (bummer --- used to have a backyard), time to get to work, time to go shopping, time to pay attention to family & friends, time to give to school fundraising, time to make time for myself, time to be creative, time to figure out what happened to all my time, time to wonder how other people arrange their time so they can do all of the above and still blog and post and go out and have fun and be pleasant to be around, not harried and stressed and tired. OK, so I don't actually do all of the previously mentioned things every day; they get spread out over many days of the week. So why don't I seem to have time?
What I don't have is a schedule, other than the deadlines that must be met. My time is unformed & fluid. That is how I want it; yet I waste it. Is it possible that people just need regimenting? God, I rail against that, in a very big way.
No real answers, just an acknowledgement of the question, and some riffing. And now it's time to go to work...
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As it happens, I didn't go to work (what a surprise). I have to add something I stumbled upon, which speaks so well to just what I was musing on:
The Clock Of Life
The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop,
At late or early hour.
To lose one's wealth is sad indeed.
Too lose one's health is more.
To lose one's soul is such a loss
That no man can restore.
Today, only is our own.
So live, love and toil with a will.
Place no faith in tomorrow,
For the clock may soon be still.
By Robert H Smith
Copyright 1932, 1982
~ or.... Etta Johnson
~ or.... Will Rogers
~ or.... Helen Shaffer
How incredibly timely! No pun intended. I want to give credit to the author, but apparently it's unknown. I found this version on the first website that came up when I googled part of the quote, which I found at the bottom of a friend's multi-forwarded email. It seems to be rumored to have been in Capone's pocket when he died, so .... who knows? I did see that story, but had forgotten about the poem. Snopes poo-pooed the Capone story, with some truth admitted.
OK, now I'm going to work!
4 comments:
Since you liked that little quote so well, perhaps you'll enjoy this little poem my dad wrote years ago about time. The older I get, the more poignant it seems to be...
Evening
by Birl R. Brown, Sr.
Those forests gleamed so lush and green
When birds sang everywhere,
And early slanting sunbeams seemed
To kiss the color there.
There, the sun sent tiny rosebud joys
For the infant dawn to feel;
Now, playful ploys, like childhood toys,
Old attic doors conceal.
All of ardor's wrinkled light
Less plow-bent earth discloses;
One fence's honeysuckled site
Beneath town-tar reposes.
The flamelight's flirting shadows fade
And embers gather gray;
The warming wood is ashes, made
From fires of yesterday.
What clocks contrive, they let conclude
When pendulums hang still,
And a softness steeped in quietude
Steals in with silvered chill.
Those forests seem so lush and green
Where birds sing everywhere,
And early slanting sunbeams lean
To kiss the cold with care.
...I think I'm gonna like reading your blog.
Jill
Oh, Jill - thank you so much for sharing this incredibly lovely poem! Your father was quite a writer. My gosh, the imagery is so lush and gorgeous. He must have been a very sensitive and thoughtful guy.
To think I was afraid to share my blog - thank you for helping me make a good start to something I've been wanting to do for a very long time.
Peace & blessings,
C
Jill, what a rich and gorgeous poem..!! Reading it on the heels of Colleen's post - so honest, and so familiar in feeling to my own experiences - has left me desperately needing tissues. I am just so blessed to know you both!!
The secret to time management: prioritize.
1. Protect daughter.
2. Kidnap interesting people.
3. Blogging.
This way you are sure to get all the important things done, and then you can look back and see your daughter being alive and all the interesting people in duffel bags and say, "Wow. I accomplished something."
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