Most of us, it seems, are dictated to on a daily basis.
Time to wake up. Time to take the kids to school. Time for the morning meeting. Time for dinner. Time to go to bed. Time to go to sleep. Time to do it all again.
I made my entrance into the world at 7.56am. I know this because it was recorded (and the fact that 11 minutes earlier my twin's was also).
Taking a moment to find the definition of 'time' I discover it means a temporal length of an event or entity’s existence. So technically we not only live within the parameters of it, we are ourselves a time zone. We are a space; a spell; a stint; a stretch; a span. Whatever way you look at it we have a beginning and an end.
For how long though? How much time do I have left? How many hours, months and seasons do I have to play with – because at the end of the day, well, that’s one less left in my existence. And who knows if this day I’ve lived half my life or whether tomorrow I have only a handful of breaths to do with what I choose.
And what I choose counts because time waits for no man. It’s been like that since the beginning – but let’s not get into that discussion.
I think Eleanor Roosevelt had it right when she said: “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, today is a gift which is why we call it the present.”
One day; 24 hours; 86,400 seconds. Time may be up my sleeve but it’s out of my hands to change it.
Novelist Marcel Proust once said a change in the weather is sufficient to recreate the world and ourselves.
Really?
It begs the question, how much change is needed in said weather to bring that recreation? In the world it can take as little as a split-second lightning strike or maybe something more extensive like the longest recorded drought in history at Chile’s Atacama Desert lasting 400 years from 1571 to 1971.
The world I can understand being recreated and realistically you’d have your head in the sand to say natural disasters weren’t on the increase.
But what about the recreation in ourselves? Or of ourselves?
Every year in the first two weeks of January I get My Song. My Song is something that sets the theme for the 12 months that follow. Sometimes it’s a challenge to see things differently, like last year was U2’s Beautiful Day. Mostly I think it’s to make me look outside myself; learn to be a lot more thankful and recognise the part I play in the world. My Song is an encouragement to see things differently, change perspective, live life fully.
So this year My Song is one I think Marcel Proust would agree fitted his words.
Crowded House’s Weather With You is going to keep me on my toes, but if that’s in gumboots or jandals remains to be seen. If I take the weather with me everywhere I go, then it stands to reason sometimes my inner storminess will need to get blown out to sea.
Growth takes every season’s input and during those three-month time frames important things are taking place. Did you know there are 168 types of weather including: pea soup, solar eclipse, dust devil, bitter brisk, midnight sun, solar corona, whirlpool, meteorite strike, falling star, howling wind and my favourite ~ beastly?
Needless to say, sometimes the forecast doesn’t quite turn out as expected. I can only hope my inner-meteorologist is prepared for whatever the morning sky brings despite what the mercury indicates on the thermometer.
