The Time It Takes...
Earlier today in the Weavers’ Guild hour, a few of us were talking during the share out about time and how it intersects the writing and work we want to do. For one of us, an hour wasn’t enough to get her project “done.” For another, she had the experience of completely losing herself in the possibilities of the work and forgetting all about time. For me, I’m still thinking about what I wrote last week about mistakes…and the role that time plays in how we feel about them.
In a comment to my last entry here, Sheri wrote, “I don’t feel far enough away from [my mistake] to have fully fleshed out what I have learned.”
(First, I love the embodied quality that the phrase “fleshed out” brings to knowledge. But that is a different entry I’m still waiting to write.) What I want to capture here: …the idea that we need some distance, timewise, to gain the perspective, and lose the emotional heat, of a mistake. Especially when there is a public component to the mistake. It’s one thing to privately wander down dead ends or misstep along the path…it’s another when we make that misstep while the spotlight it upon us, isn’t it?
This relates to something else I’ve been thinking lately: there’s the time something takes, and then there is the time around the time it takes. Time for the energy to dissipate. Time for the emotions to clear. Time for the last ripple to quiet. In some cases that could be months, or years, couldn’t it?
I wonder if we don’t honor that enough, when we make our to-do lists for the day (and for the life). We slot fifteen minutes for a fifteen minute job. We set our three-year goals. And then we march ourselves on to the next thing, check, check, check. How would it feel to allow time regularly to integrate, to sift, sort, winnow through the experiences and memories any action pulls in its wake? How would it feel to incorporate more time for pausing, breathing, drinking a glass of water by the kitchen window?
I drink a glass of water by my kitchen window. Snow keeps falling. The flakes drift, float, hang suspended for a moment and then a gust whisks them up and away. Snowfall always feels a little bit like time stops altogether, or at least it slows way, way down. Today I welcome that sensation as it reminds me to take a little extra time to let these questions grow within.