It is Autumn in England. We got the hour that we lent to summer back last night, a reminder that winter is nearly here. The light will be fading by five today, even though I remember looking at my watch yesterday afternoon and marvelling at the strength of the afternoon sun.
It is strange how things change from day to day, how much of a hold time has.
An hour seems infinitely precious, although the gift is an illusion.
I have been wondering what to write for my last post since Friday. This week has not gone quite as imagined, and the ideas that I had for my end of week posts got side-tracked along the way.
I am getting used to the fact that life doesn’t often go according to plan, although I spent a good decade or so trying to prove the contrary.
It is possible to enforce an order but it tends to be at a high cost and there always comes, I think, a moment when you realise that it doesn’t work that way. The realisation is shocking. There is little you can do to control time.
There is little you can do to control time.
I made a switch, a few years ago and after the initial shock, from fighting a losing battle to trying to make the most of each moment. From inhabiting a rigid world where what happened at six and seven and eleven o’clock was set in stone and the days monotone, to living in one that was far less concrete but oh so much more colourful –
I never stop being surprised by how much can happen in one week.
I hold onto this when the precariousness of it all gets to me. It seems, now, far more sensible to be rooted in uncertainty than certainty. Far better to be open to life rather than constantly seeking to out-wit it or tidy it up.
Far harder, sometimes –