In Time

Or on Time? That is the Question

Still Life with Fruits, by Emilie Preyer

When I was a kid I loved watching Mork and Mindy. Robin Williams as Mork in full-on 70’s regalia and rainbow suspenders, Pam Dawber as Mindy explaining Earth to her new alien acquaintance. All of that. But mostly, Mork from Ork’s weekly check in with his home planet. He’d describe the take-aways from his most recent learning experiences (i.e. problems) and his supervisor, Orson, would listen, often with wry disappointment.

And now, in my head, I have my own imaginary check in. Probably more than weekly. A place where I go to examine my day or week, or more and see what it is I’m trying to figure out. And usually, when I realize something important, it’s something I’ve realized before, but forgotten. Which is frustrating. I suppose that’s one reason people get tattoos, but I am not, as I like to say, a “body modifier.” I kind of wish I were because I love the idea of printing important reminders on your own flesh so you can’t just lose them the way you would a set of keys.

So how else to keep our hard-earned wisdom? I am trying to write mine down, either like this, or in a poem, on my phone. Wherever I can manage. But so often, those notes mean little compared to an inner, felt sense of what matters and why. The souls is a slippery thing, and very exact in its measures. At least, so far as I can tell. It likes nouns: gate, tulip, grape, elbow, mollusk, arch, flame. The things that draw us to the world of the moment. And isn’t every moment a world? Look at a baby discovering their own feet. The pure thrill of having toes. Who could imagine something more surprising?

And it––the soul–– likes that we live in moments, and cares how. That is the most I can figure out. When I remember to remember, through all the dailiness of laundry, and emails and deadlines and worry about the horrors of world. Through the sorrow of the past, collectively and my own. Through sudden floods and tornado warnings. Through earthquakes and illness. Through all of that––if I can pick a few flowers and put them in a vase. If I can talk to an old friend on the phone. If I can make a soup. If I can curl up with my beloved as I fall asleep. Then, just maybe I am living, at least pertly, in time, rather than only on time. Being inside it instead of racing through it.

I say this from the darkest place I know. I say this as someone who has waited for the worst to happen, then watched it happen. I say this to my younger self who could not imagine outliving a brother, a son. Then did. I say this to the self who still struggles to find a solid place to hold onto. “Don’t hold on,” I tell her. And, if only for a moment––a moment that feels like a small implosion––I put down the weight of that carrying, drop my shoulders and I’m free, unencumbered, alive in time.

And for more about what I’m up to at this time or ny other, go to www.litfieldwriters.com