When it comes down to it, when everything is stripped away and revealed, removing all the accumulated stuff and things of place and age, it seems there’s only one item left of any solidity: time is all we have. No belongings, or accolades, or opinions, assumptions, any of the accreted patina of experience or character or learning . . . only time. Nothing else matters.
Then, it’s a question of what you do with it.
Do you decide? Do you let things pass? Will you suffer nothing to offend or waylay? Or will you stop, slow and in wonder, observing the moments in between?
Our time is the most precious finite currency. It can never be replenished. It is forever running out. This is the steady state of life. What will you do with it?
Think, mould, produce. As much as the state of life is reflected in time running out, equally the response is to spend time in proliferation: a flow of constant possibility, a cycle of conceiving, making, sharing that intersects, overlaps and becomes inseparable one from the other—unfettered, unconditioned, filled with love.
Is it possible? Although it’s easy to say, what does it take to do? There’s a sense of drift here, something of a slipping ideal, wherein intentions and potential can so easily dissipate in the tricky shift from inclination to manifestation without a construct to sustain the delicate waves becoming particles becoming energy becoming manifest . . .
If I write a page a day for a year, after a year I’ll have 365 pages. Will it be good? Will it?
Simultaneously the micro- and macro-: take care of the words, then the sentences, then the paragraphs, then . . . consider both the moment and the decade; what is now? What concerns will truly become obstacles? Or are all things negotiable given time, then intent with love? It’s never ever too late. Never.
If time is the only thing I have, what will I do with it? I’ll love.