This is going to be a short post.
At least, that’s what I told myself when I started typing. A quick dispatch. A little snack of a newsletter to slide into your inbox while your coffee cools.
It’s a lie, of course. Because the moment you start writing about time, you realize how slowly and quickly it moves all at once, and suddenly a “short post” turns into a conversation you can’t just wrap up neatly with a bow.
I don’t have much time. I’m not sure it’s worth writing, let alone reading. And at the same time, it’s here. I’m here. I care. Spending some time writing is better than spending no time writing. This creativity stuff is moving forward—death, taxes, time marching on to the tune of One tonne tomato (Guantanamera for those of you with much more culture than myself).
Last weekend, when I went to the lake, I arrived late to work with my chainsaw. I didn’t have much time. It was a short work session. I had so little time, it hardly seemed worth getting the saw out. At the same time, I showed up. Trees were cut, brush was moved. Spending some time working in the woods is better than spending no time working in the woods. The road building is moving forward—as it turns out dear reader, this was a road to nowhere, but I guess we’re all just little creatures, talking heads really...
After working in the woods, I barely had a moment to visit my Nanny. I didn’t have much time. I was late. I barely had ten minutes to see her. As I locked the gate to the campground behind me, I considered my options: I could go visit here for ten minutes—a quick hi, hello of a visit, or I could just move on.
A ten minute visit? That hardly seemed worth it. I didn’t have much time. I showed up.
Hi Nanny, I’m not here long. I’ve been running around like a chicken with my head cut off all day and I don’t have much time to spend with you. She smiled and laughed. The twinkle in her eye said all I needed to hear.
I’ll take what I can get. I’m ninety-two years old. I don’t have much time either. Having some company for a short time is better than no company at all. I’m lucky you’re here visiting. I smiled at her. I’m lucky you’re still here to visit.
So here is the part where this “short post” completely shatters its own promise, because I want to leave you with something more than just a cute anecdote. I want to send you a letter of gratitude.
Thank you for reading this. Thank you for lingering here with me, past the word count, past the point where we both probably should have closed our laptops and gotten back to our day.
Past the point of being a reasonable human being and to the edge of foolish patience.
Am I testing you?
Perhaps…
We act like time is just sand on a beach. But even a beach eventually runs out of sand. You can wait for a perfect window, clear schedule, or a long weekend that never arrives.
And then?
The stench of regret will cling to your days like a sticky turd on a small dogs arse.
So consider this your uninvited disruption for the week.
Notice your time. Take the time. Enjoy the time—truly enjoy it—with the people you love.
Show up. Show up and do things you care about. Show up for people you care about. Move things forward. Do it now.
You don’t have much time. And neither do I. So pour another cup of tea, stay for ten minutes, and let’s not rush off just yet.
And if you’re feeling especially cheeky, spend some time to reply to this message.
Say hello and we’ll both feel warmer because of it.
