Doing Time
Time has really changed for me lately and I don’t know if it’s age, or grief or the stress of living in this country right now or all of the above. When I was a single mom of two and had the majority of responsibility for raising said children, I was always on time. Yes, always. Not only on time, but usually early, even with one or both kids in tow.
But lately, I don’t know how to feel about time anymore. For a long time now—a decade if I’m keeping track (I am)–I am alternating between waiting for the other shoe to drop and hunkering down in my home preparing as if the next pandemic was on its way. I’ve been late, on time, AWOL and overbooked. I’m all over the place, even with the strategies I’ve put in place to right me. Like this weekly essay—I created a time frame for myself to stay accountable and on track. I have to say, since March 2021 when I started this little venture, I’ve only missed a handful of weekly posts, but it still rattles me when I miss it. (And my editor is unforgiving!)
In the introduction of the anthology I published this past June, I put the blame on grief:
I heard an interview with musician Regina Spector talking about how she really wasn’t aware of how long it had been since her last album; she was too busy making it. It was only during the interviews she was giving that she realized it had been a while. The way she explained it was like this: “I’m not aware of time in a really useful way.” (NPR June 12, 2022) I thought that was a perfect description of grief—not being aware of time as we once knew it.
Time has gotten kind of bendy and fluid on me, like Steve Martin’s accounting of time in the movie The Jerk. (“I know we’ve only known each other for four weeks and three days, but to me, it seems like nine weeks and five days . . .”)
Of course aging and stress impact our experience of time, but I believe grief messes with it with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker. And because time is a metric, we—at least I—get hobbled by the expectations of time. I found this in one of my past essays: “The arbitrary structure of “the first year” imposes expectations that shouldn’t have anything to do how a person grieves the loss of their loved one. The imposition of any kind of time or structure around grief suggests that it is a process that has measurable benchmarks or levels so we can measure how well we’re doing with our progress.”
I don’t know about anyone else, but there is no metric I can apply to my grief that makes me feel like I’m doing a great job at it.
Recently, I did have an interesting span of time where it seemed all the factors that were toying with me stopped and left me alone for a minute. All shoes had dropped and I was just a normal person making plans and enjoying my day. And it’s not like I can’t or don’t make plans…I make lots of them. I literally need have three calendars and two running lists to keep track of everything I’m doing. But I wasn’t second-guessing myself or worried about what anyone else needed from me during those times. And I wasn’t beset by the thoughts that I should check in with Annie, which was how I made most of my plans when she was alive—running stuff by her. And she did the same with me—although honestly, not as often.
But, that feeling didn’t last, and I’m okay with it. (It’s not like I tossed out my three calendars and two lists.) The truth is, missing Annie takes up all my time—everything else just has to fit in and around anything that makes it on to the schedule.
And I don’t mind that at all.
Here’s the scene from The Jerk—you should watch it right now. 🤭
Catch up on Annie’s nonprofit, A Pocket Full of Rocks.
Ah, “The Jerk,” a classic disposable movie from the 1970’s. “I’m somebody! I’m in the phone book!” Good stuff - thanks for sharing, Cindy.
The picture says it all. Priorities shift, moments are precious, there's a lot that calls up a response of "Who cares?" To keep on truckin' takes something. :-)