Time never slows.
Ignore those who believe that it does, for it is a fallacy of mammoth proportions. Time is a human construct, used to measure events, from past to future, a way for us to find order in life. Newton and Einstein tried to complicate matters with their oversized brains, but for those of us who are mortal humans, since the early Sumerian civilization, time has simply been a system of measurement.
If one really wanted to appear brainy, one could say that time is the fourth dimension. It cannot be seen, cannot be smelled, cannot be touched, and yet it is as real to us as breathing.
But time never slows.
For we humans, then, time is something we deal with daily, and we say things like “time was on my side,” or “there never seems to be enough time,” or “my time was up,” and we hurry, scurry, worry in time, having absolutely no control over it and yet spending an unhealthy amount of time and effort trying to defeat it.
These are the things old men, like me, think about from the bowels of a Motel 6, one day short of a grand adventure, philosophizing about life in general and today, time in particular.
I am attempting to learn how to slow down and, thusly, enjoy the time I have remaining.
It is my belief that . . .
I’m coming to realize, and firmly believe, that slowing down and truly enjoying each moment is an art form. It is something which is lost on me, or at least has been lost for decades. I have been, for a large proportion of my life, like my dog Toby, chasing my tail in a rapid circling action, really going nowhere but appearing to have great purpose. What the point of that tail-chasing is, for Toby, will forever be a mystery to me.
What the point of that tail-chasing has been, for me, is a similar mystery.
I once thought I knew but, upon my most recent reflections, realized I had no clue. I have spent vast amounts of the most precious of commodities, time, racing hither and yon in an amazing race against myself, unable to articulate a single reason why I was doing it. I still find it hard, if not impossible, to intelligently explain what I believed I was doing or why I was doing it.
Did I enjoy employment so much that I was willing to let it dominate my life? I cannot say that to be true.
Did I enjoy yardwork and housework and a thousand other chores so much that I was willing to have them consume my free time? Again, I cannot say that to be true either.
In fact, digest this morsel of truth if you will . . .
I would go so far as to say that doing nothing, spending hour upon hour just relaxing, scared the living bejeebers out of me during vast amounts of time during my life, and what does that say about yours truly?
I laugh, at this moment, when I think of that truth. It’s either laugh or cry, and today I choose to be happy. I was afraid of doing nothing, like ancient hunters, ink-black nights surrounding them, devouring them, stoking up the fires on the savannah in an attempt to keep the dark at bay.
Like the shark, which must keep moving to stay alive, that was Bill Holland, circling, plowing through the currents of life, knowing on an instinctual level that movement meant life, and stationary meant my demise.
Thus, I suspect, this will be . . .
A slow, at times painful, transition, but that transition has, in fact, begun.
This grand adventure, just begun, six months on the road in a remodeled shorty school bus, will be my next level of education. The road will be my classroom. I have no real plans other than to head north from the Mexican border. I have no concept of what my daily routine will be, nor do I care one iota. It is the mystery of it all which intrigues me and, truth be told, frightens me as well, but I feel like I must do it, for I do not believe that this gift of life is meant to be frittered away chasing our tails.
No disrespect meant to Newton and Einstein, but I don’t really give a damn what their definitions of time were; all I know is I want my remaining time to be spent in the activity of intentional living.
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