Time is a gift. They tell you in your youth, you do not listen. You tell them as yours begins to wane, they try to live more fully in your honor but it is a ruse. We cannot care for time the way we wish we could, it is a gift of gods, an Elysian mirage, there is no making the most of something that cannot even show you its face.
No the gift of time is only worth its weight in what, in fact, it does give. The gift is presence. Is a moment longer with your hand in mine, is the feeling of eons and seconds being one and the same at the view from the mountaintop. The gift wrapped in two hours is actually the permission to spend them writing, to know that is all I must do.
A story wrote itself in front of me this morning, while I was trying to endure that which only steals time from me. How many times must you swat an idea away before its persistence wins you over? I would count the times if it didn't seem an antithesis to the point I'm trying to make. Perhaps persistence is the gift, too.
I make another post-it note with the story, pin it to quickly diminishing free space on my wall, a tapestry of post-its, a manifestation of persistence, a visualization of time itself. Here I have sat, and created, here I have lived. It has not been enough, it never will be, time is not the gift my dear but what we made of it, and if you look back I think you'll find it was
Everything.
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