Northern Rivers Storm
Unlock Door Before Exiting
I’m in lock-down now — the last week before departure for two months in Oz. Time mutates. In fact this theory — one coined by my husband as “Mutable Time” — holds that there is time out of time, parallels to our clocked universe.
It’s not at all woo-woo. Our children age remarkably while we age at a much slower pace. Yesterday, it seems, we were repairing skinned knees and consoling teenagers about lost boyfriends, and today we’re discussing 401K’s and the housing market. We might see old friends and pick up a conversation as though we’d seen them just last week. Vacations slide by in an instant and the rest of the work-year stretches out into eternity. We get lost in a subject of interest and lose all sense of time. Hours pass without notice. All these are examples of mutable time.
Time in lock-down mutates too — stretches and warps so that the days seem longer but the pace picks up a tick. All of the items that can’t be done long distance or over the web are carefully calculated to be done before the last minute. This arranged and that sent. Soaker-hose timers turned on, batteries checked. Dog food ordered, cat kibble stockpiled and house-sitter updated with new information.
I’ve worked very hard these last few months on time management, mutable and otherwise. I’ve worked hard to remain in the moment. To relish the gifts of the day no matter where I am and hold close the people I cherish. It was way too easy to succumb to the poignant longing to be elsewhere and fill psyche’s cracks and crevices with wisps of grey disrepair to match the fog outside on the harbor.
So, I’ve tried to craft a way to be here and there with some internal comfort, no matter where I am. To fashion a perspective that focuses on the present while at the same time maintaining an on-going distant view. It’s a conscious choice — one that requires attention and cultivation. Fertilization, even, and a bit of mulch to withstand the drought of departure. A presence of mind.
Lock-down focus, however, presumes an un-locking at some point — an undocking and preparation for take-off. Tray tables must be lifted to the upright position, as it were. For this next phase, I’m reminded of a sign seen on a bathroom door in Tasmania: “Unlock door before exiting.” Exactly.
***
photo credit: C.E. Wilkins
3 responses so far ↓
Paul // July 31, 2008 at 1:47 am |
Hello Buff, good to see you’re coming back “home”. I’ll have to try and get time off work when you do get back. Let me know via skype when that is, and I’ll organise some time off.
lots of love, Paul.
P.S. Say hello to Chris for me too, C ya.
susanwiggs // August 31, 2008 at 5:41 pm |
What a great reminder. I am behind on my blog reading, as you can see, but your message is timeless — be present in the moment but don’t forget about that deadline.
eneferri // September 25, 2008 at 11:46 am |
Those are classic clangers Buff. Hilarious. You couldn’t have scripted it better. (or is it Klangers? – is this an aussi word only? You hear it but never seen it in writing).
I’ve an american friend who lives in Oz, who tells me ‘whingers’ is not a familiar term in the USA.
When he was visiting his family back home in the ’states he had car troubles and became increasingly impatient with the mechanic who had endless excuses for not finishing the job. After the mechanic went through yet another story about how terrible his week had been, Dave said in a sympathetic voice, ah I see, you’re a whinger! The man asked what that was and Dave explained….oh you know, you’re doing the best you can, people and things are getting in the way, preventing you from doing what you need to do, and people don’t understand just how difficult it is for you….. They guy was thrilled to hear there was a term for this dreadful situation he was in and said Yeah that’s it exactly, I’m a whinger.
Now could that story be true? I find it hard to believe that folk in the usa don’t know what a whinger is….