Marching On

Time gets away from us, doesn't it? When I'm working I hardly have any awareness of it, how much has elapsed, the hours I spend in my writing space, etc. On those occasions when I'm in the zone I forget time altogether. The dogs often have to remind me that it's the hour for our walk, or to start dinner (they get fed when we eat, but they always want theirs early) or even when I should be in bed instead of at the computer.

I've always been like this, which is why I have so many calendars and planners and such. Without them I'd be entirely clueless as to the date. It is Monday, right?

I have no idea what happened to February, but it's poofed, vanished, gone. Last time I checked the calendar it was February 24th. I woke up this morning and it's March 6th. I can tell you I spent the last week of February and the first week of March building, fine-tuning and mapping out a new universe for a client. At the same time I've been putting together my series notebook, ordering research books, and getting settled in for the long haul, writing-wise. In the process most of the personal stuff I had planned for February poofed on me, too.

Back in January I started working on a tote to take to the county quilt show and share some new ideas I had with my sewing sisters. I had basically a month to get it done, and I didn't. So I took the unfinished work to the show, and got teased for being overly-ambitious. Still shared my ideas, which was thing most important to me. I might start working on next year's show project as soon as I finish this one, though.

Despite the inexplicable time jump from February to March I got the important personal stuff done: the family and the dogs are cared for, the house is relatively clean, and the laundry is under control. I'm almost ready for the next visitor. Sometime today I need to go grocery shopping or we're having soup and sandwiches again, but other than restocking the pantry and the fridge, I'm good to go for March.

I used to beat myself up for not finishing things according to plan. Only when I realized that I will always plan more than I can actually do did I stop smacking myself over things undone.

Time marches on. Yesterday (and really, it seems like just yesterday) I brought my youngest home from the hospital after a nineteen-hour labor with a midwife supervising the delivery. This past week she flew to Washington DC for a science conference. On her own -- this because she's not a newborn; she's a grown woman. Between these two events in her life and mine there were twenty-three years, but from my POV it might as well be twenty-three minutes.

Time does not wait for you to notice it. It is a perpetual army of moments, indifferent to you and on the move forever. Our lives and our time here are finite, so make the most of yours.