time passing

The Elusiveness of Time

The elusiveness of time, evanescent, vanishing like vapor before me along a trail from instant to infinite, marking the minutes in between, the pauses I make, those I earned and those not taken. I meander through my photographic catalog, encountering landscapes lush and verdant, followed by arid desert sunsets and horizonless sea views, searching for what this intoxication of reminiscence might teach me. My curiosity turned inward, seeking answers to what my eyes see and my heart feels. This year, my threshold year, I have chosen to point my lens at language, at intersections where words and image merge, to hear what I cannot see, to see what I cannot hear. The voices of earlier incarnations echo, and their messages ring profoundly as I edit the redundant and revisit the lessons of my beautiful ordinary life, knowing the equilibrium of years is forever out of favor, as I become my oldest self.

There was a time, not long ago, when there were no unaccounted-for hours and living life reverberated in triple time, schedules and meetings, commutes, the exhaustive demands of excess, and most debilitating, the decision to live apart while chasing the dream of more. It was a chorus of ‘buts' and ‘ands' strung together in the finite progression of a lifetime: this and that, here and there, but if not for that, yes, but. The conjunctions of the time-starved human, doing more with the unrelenting fixed and metered increments of seconds, minutes, hours—hours that too quickly become days and days that string rapidly to years. Moments that are mindlessly lost along the path from instant to infinite.

The impetus for my new life was my father's passing in January of 2015, the urgent awakening from a life of should to a life of could. Passages and transitions, first his and then mine, and the consequential spiritual assignments that took me years to understand, much less graciously accept. Our accounts were clear by the time his story ended, and his passing left me intolerant of sacrifices that kept me from what I loved, the man, the place, the life. I know he is proud of me for following my heart, for choosing a different life, for being fearless and bold. This truth I feel in my bones and know to be true for he and the universe send affirmations and I, in repayment, have become a better listener, a more confident shepherd of my life.

I began this threshold year with the question of how many years constitute this lifetime? My lifetime. I unapologetically cross this Rubicon of my own definition, sentimental and vulnerable. A renewed sensitivity emerges from the wisdom born out of facing fears and outliving them and the certainty that if I am to make myself available to the goodness the universe has to offer, I must make conscious choices about time and how I spend it.

Chuck began this threshold year with the question of how I wanted to celebrate this life of mine. There were discussions about destinations, invitations, tequila, party hats, choices along the razor's edge of relationships in the wake of age, wisdom, accomplishment, and fear. My realization came slowly, thoughtful and deliberate, and made sense to the woman I am and the life I have chosen. The only one with whom I wanted to take the journey was the one whose footsteps were a constancy beside me on the path. The crossing of this threshold would be like so many others in our life together, intimate and personal. We would revel and remember the good fortune that delivered us to each other all those years ago and celebrate the life we crafted, witnesses of ourselves. Him. I would spend it alone with him. As for the others, the coterie of female friends who are the helium of my days, lifting me up and carrying me along on the breezy goodness of their light, would accompany us on our way through the year, sharing experiences and celebrations on an intimate but fantastic scale.

These are the stories shared here, the ones about crossing thresholds, beginning at endings when the finish line is really the starting line. It is about celebrations, friendships, family, and the sextants that assisted in the navigation of this narrows. This year is the incandescent intersection of wisdom and dreams brighter than any star in that darkest of night skies and resonant each and every day I walk this planet.

Time Slipping by

What would she say, this mirage of my younger self,  to my older self,  as she rushed by peering at our future selves in the garden lunching so contentedly?  

She,  such a confident stride of swagger and purpose, her movement focused on speed, a rose-colored flash of brisk pace from one end of the gallery to the other, checking this museum off the endless list of must-sees, to do's, can't misses.    Would she even notice the couple tucked in the small break in the trees, sitting together on that small patio in the garden surrounded by red lanterns, leisurely lunching?  Would she even see it? 

Would she have used the photographer's eye, sizing up the composition and arrangement of color and movement, patiently waiting for the breeze to blow the leaves just so?

Or would her mind be fixed on the mental list that always ran in her head of calendars and meetings, shoulds and shouldn't 's?  Would she even notice that time is slipping preciously, irreplaceably by?  

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