A Wild Ride
Slipping through my fingers
“Slipping through my fingers all the time, I try to capture every minute” — ABBA
“The year is like a life - it is later than you think, the main business over and done with before you fully begin. There is a kind of tidal retard in our perception of forward motion.” — John Updike, Toward the End of Time
“How did it get so late so soon?” — Attributed to Dr. Seuss
Author’s note: This short reflection on time comes from my journal at the end of a previous summer. The time has slipped away quickly since then, but I was reminded of it as we move into the breathlessness of the holidays, a season of time too short with people I love.
People talk about the steady march of time, but it sure doesn’t feel steady. It feels like being on a cart careening downhill without working breaks. All I want to do is slam on the breaks — take a little more time here — but the more I try to find those breaks, the more I grasp at moments of slowness and breath, the more those moments slip from my mind, as water through fingers, as gaps in memory. So we accelerate. So fast my hat threatens to fly off. So fast I’m knocked breathless by the force of its wind.
Oh to pause time! To make everything right, and then start it again slowly, to be enjoyed like honey squeezed from a fresh bottle onto thick warm homemade bread. Where does it want to go so fast? Why won’t it wait for me?
Author’s note #2: A response entry from my journal, Thanksgiving weekend, November, 2023:
Someone recently told me that life is a series of goodbyes, but they mean something because it has been so good. And in the midst of my anger and fear at this careening ride we call life, I’m reminded that roller coasters have their own thrill. As terrifying as it is, what a ride! Is not the wind invigorating, the hill lush and green? The moments precious in their scarcity, the honey sweetest in beads off the end of your finger?
Earlier today I had a small moment of blessing: sitting in a hot tub, a lake in the background, the sky a perfect blue. Though the air had the intense chill of oncoming winter, the November sun was warm on my face, and cast a golden light on the scene. As I sat there I scooped up a little of the water in my hand, and watched it run out between my fingers. The drops twisted and glinted on their short trip down to rejoin the great warm bath of water below. How beautiful they were, even as they slipped through my fingers. What life, what light they had, even if their journey was but a blink.