How do you make a timeful life? How do you honor time, make more time, so you can let yourself spend evenings silently with books or quilting and without anxiety, a residual sense of urgency and light mists of guilt, that you’re not doing something else that you should do, or should have done?

People in the “Subaru lounge” at Grayson Subaru are talking and laughing like friends, even though they just met (here) 20 minutes ago. “I’m a Florida baby. Yeah I was born and raised in south Florida.”

A man in a black puffy coat has dropped off his car and is walking out the door holding an enormous Ziploc bag of chocolate chip cookies. Who are those lucky co-workers.

I think this is why I don’t usually mind waiting on my car at the shop, or sitting in waiting rooms at hospitals or clinics or standing in queues: here is a small dark envelope of time. Here is a gift of time, which I’m not supposed to be “using” for anything. So I can be very still, hear all the sounds, see the movements of everything happening around me, open my body like a hand, let things fall in, spill over. I’m alive in this world.

 

 

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