We have so much time / we have so little time / we have no idea about time at all.
An urgent angst towards our mysteriously numbered days.
While I was on the West Coast in March, I drove down to Washington State to visit my aunt Mona. We are hardly ever on the same coast at the same time, let alone continent; Mona has lived in Switzerland and Singapore, Ethiopia and New Mexico... Mona and I launched right into the middle of the [metaphorical] lake while staring out at the literal one that her cabin is on, hints of Spring starting to flirt with the trees that climb the mountain ridge. She told me about the new program she’s starting in June after decades of volunteer and pro-bono work abroad because of my uncle’s role in his own career, because ~workplace politics etc~, because motherhood, maybe, partially, because priorities, because, because. My aunt prioritized time with my cousins during their teenage summers instead of signing up for a Masters program or writing PhD papers. Sitting at her kitchen table, I marvelled how life was good and gracious in the way that there was time enough for both: to be present during those foundational years for her kids, and to pursue a career of her own. She thought maybe she was making a choice between one life and another, when really it was a choice of which sequence her goals and priorities were going to take.
So much of life comes in seasons: there’s the season of tiny humans, no sleep, not knowing which way is up, trying to keep everyone alive and everyone fed and everyone from throwing [insert all the things babies throw] across the room. The season of soccer practices and social calendars and wanting to play ukulele or take tap dancing lessons or be on the debate team. The season of who even am I anymore and do I have an identity outside this hamster wheel of a life we’re living. The season of who even is my spouse and do we even like each other anymore. The season of what next, the season of everyone has moved out oh wait no they haven’t oh yes they’re gone oh wait. The season of how are we old enough to have kids that are getting married. The season of what do I want. None of it lasts forever and some seasons are simultaneous and overlapping, just as our identities and the titles and names we call ourselves are simultaneous and overlapping. There might be a version of our lives that you dream about that just hasn’t arrived to us yet.
On my flight to Vancouver, I sat next to a 34 year-old ER doctor and we talked for four hours (I know I’m the Dinner With Strangers person but I am not usually the Talk With Strangers On The Plane for four hours person). We talked about pursuing our dreams and how beautiful/ difficult/ hard/ unlikely that is, and what we were learning in therapy (what, you don’t talk to strangers beside you on a plane about what you’re learning in therapy?) and diagnosing our ADHD via Tik Toks we’ve seen and what we’re learning/ thinking/ not learning about love.
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