It hits us all at one time or another in quiet and not-so-quiet ways. We are getting older. Time is marching, no matter how hard we run or try for a sleight of mind. We know in that quiet heart-voice that the physical resilience and harsh innocence of our youth will turn the corner–never to be quite ours again.
We don’t see this passing–or feel this passing–as it is happening. It is only in retrospect, that we look over our shoulders and notice that the minutes have become mountains of time-slapped events that we can catalogue and count. A phrase like, “Well, about twenty years ago,” can give us a real tunk upside the head. “Twenty years ago?” Dear God!
Time is an interesting task master. It heals all wounds. It waits for no man. It is fleeting as it crawls. We mark our minutes by it and our hours–then our years and our children’s generations. We catalog it. We get caught in it and we flee from it. Yet in essence, time is really only the “hash marks” we use to organize ourselves and others as we move through life. Time helps us keep track of the who and the what, andthe when and the how long.
And our bodies go along for this ride, as well. They track time quietly or not so quietly. Those aches and pains and those mirrored reflections, tell us that our outsides are changing. This flesh that calls us human is beginning to show the dents and dings and the wear and tear of our days upon this earth. Yet inside, where the clock has no tick, resides the ageless soul-filled powerhouse of our true being. The wonder-aching child stands next to the crinkle-eyed adult. The saint and the sinner stand hand-caught within us, as we peer out at the world.
The hourglass fills and empties and we place ourselves on a continuum that society and ourselves give judgment to. We should be doing this by now. We should have accomplished that by now. We are too youngfor this or too oldfor that. Time on the run can be cruel–a harsh whip that strikes with too little or too much as it whistles its song in passing.
But time doesn’t have to be on the run. We can slow it down. We can unleash the bridle that holds us helpless or harried as the hands do their turn. This takes conscious choice and a determined peace. It takes a willingness to live from an inner place that calls each second precious. When we learn to honor and hold each moment, each moment honors and holds us. We shall discover and remember the joyful cry of the young lover, the curiosity of the explorer and the wisdom of the sage that are inside ever waiting for us–if we but allow them.