by Jeffe Kennedy
Sunrise on the morning of the Winter Solstice, after the long night of the full moon and lunar eclipse.
When the seven of us first planned how we'd do this blog, we decided to create some consistency with weekly themes. We each proposed a list of 8-10 possible themes, then voted on our favorites. KAK took the top 52 and put them in a Google calendar for us. 2011 is all mapped out.
Each of us posts on the same day each week. I asked for Sunday because I post to my own blog on Monday through Friday. We decided to start on January 1, which has a nice symmetry for me, since I started mine on January 1 also, two years ago. Allison would write a kick-off post, since this was all her idea.
Somehow, in all that deciding and wrangling, I ended up being the one to introduce the topic each week.
Welcome to Time week.
Have I ever mentioned I'm not very good at time?
I like things associated with time. I have some antique watches, some that work, some that don't. I like to track the full moons, the the solstices and the equinoxes, the rhythm of the seasons. Perhaps that's because time has always been just a little bit beyond me.
David gets annoyed with me if I wake in the middle of the night and want to look at the clock. I have to see, so I know if it's midnight or two or nearly time to get up. Sometimes I wake ten minutes before the alarm and, particularly on dark mornings, it feels just the same to me as two in the morning. Or midnight. He says if I just trust my internal clock, I'll know what time it is.
I picture my internal clock like something out of Willy Wonka, with the hands running madly in two different directions and brass coils springing out of it.
David now - we can be in the middle of the mountains and he'll squint at the sun, look at the shadow cast by his hand and estimate the time within 15 minutes.
I try not to hate him for this.
But really, I think it's a talent of mine, the losing of time. When I was a little kid, I worked on projects, oblivious to the passage of time, until my mother stood over me asking didn't I realize it was time for dinner, the movie, to open Christmas presents, what have you. Of course I didn't realize. Now, when I write, I reclaim some of that. I disappear from the world of ticking clocks and sink into the land that is whatever time I want it to be. When I'm watching the clock, the writing feels bad. When two hours have gone by without me noticing, then things have gone well.
Losing time has become not a handicap, but a gift. I keep my schedules and spreadsheets. I can time a fancy dinner so that all the dishes come out at exactly the right time, even if I'm cooking all day. I've never missed an airplane because I was late. I also check the time a lot. I'm the woman forever looking at my watch, not because I'm impatient or late, but to make sure nothing has slipped on me.
When I can let the time go and just write, or read, or watch the sunset, that's when I'm at my best.
Wacky internal clock and all.