Time is an issue for me. It has been an issue for a long while. Not when I was a kid. Then time stretched out like a relaxed cat, stretching long, and I relaxed with it. Playing outside up in trees and pretending each limb was a room in my imaginary house, and me climbing from limb to limb to either cook in my imaginary kitchen or stretch out on my imaginary bed and pretend to take a good long nap. Or perhaps even relax so much looking up at the blue Texas sky that I did doze off for a moment or so, particularly if I was safely lying in the crook of the tree. Yes, time when I was a kid was not an issue. Days stretched on, hour after delicious hour, and I was focused on my pretend world or on the doodle bug curling up into a ball in the palm of my hand or on the chug of my legs moving up and down as I raced through the neighborhood on my Schwinn with the tassels flying out of the end of the handgrips on the handlebars. Just thinking of that part of my life and those memories causes me to breathe deeper and remember vividly the whir of the lawnmower and the smell of freshly cut grass.
But now, let’s fast forward to the present and I am sitting in my living room with my dog barking sporadically at dogs passing by outside and my student writing across the table from me. Time now feels as if it is passing in a flash. Morning sun turns to evening darkness with one turn around the room and then it’s time for sleep and then up again with that morning sun. And the focus of my youth yields to another kind of focus as an adult, which is filled with other concerns besides that tree or that doodle bug or that bike. And yet, I am aware that the goal is to live every day as if I were that five-year-old, relaxed, trusting and aware. That is my aim. That is my hope.
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