Things blossom in their time. They bud and bloom, blossom and fade. Everything in its time.
I’m thinking about ebb and flow and the fullness of time and the absence of it. I think we tend to regret lack of time, but rarely seem to celebrate its abundance. This seems sad to me.
It is not that I think I am somehow immune to this – oh no! I fill my minutes and seconds up with things – sometimes with useless time wasters – just like anyone else does. I’ve lamented over the past few months that I’m no longer sure if I know how to not be busy (ie: stressed out) anymore. It’s not that I’m addicted to the feeling, but I think I’m addicted to the pace, to the speed, to the constant momentum. I do not know how to lay fallow and peaceful any more. If I am idle, it is a fretful idle that makes me jumpy and irritable.
I know this must change, and so I will change it, although I don’t know yet how I will make that happen.
I’m transitioning my attention from business class work (although it will stay in the back of my mind) to getting ready for my February art show. I’ve planned a few pieces, but nearly everything has yet to be made. I am terrible at working on multiple large projects at once. Classes are over. Now it’s time to begin. Endings. Beginnings. Ebbing around to flow strongly.
This past week the last blossoms of summer flaked away onto the frost-slicked ground. Every morning I wake up to tendrils of white – but not enough, I’m still waiting for a good snowfall that sticks. The nip and quick caress of winter air in the morning (Munchkin still insists on riding his bike to school) makes me want to cradle endless cups of warm coffee or tea in my cold-soaked fingers, to nestle down into soft quilts and hibernate. Winter is, paradoxically, the time I feel most sluggish but I think I also accomplish more. I don’t know if this is a purely a function of 8 months of cold weather outweighing 4 months of warmth (and therefore accounting for twice as much work) or purely my imagination.
In a way, it is of no consequence. What is needful gets done. The flow of summer has swept me around to the ebb of winter.