Barging Through Time’s Wall
Artist Guthrie Gutis’ painting https://www.gudisarts.com/
I’ve been thinking about the concept of time as I spend an elongated stay in Evanston, Illinois with my children and grandchildren. (I went into more detail describing my rapture over this retirement-living experiment in a previous post.) Rather than feeling constrained by limited minutes and seconds, I’ve been gifted a sense of spaciousness by Mother Time. One month has felt like six weeks (in a good way). I’m reminded of Peter Beagle’s allegory, The Last Unicorn, in which he writes:
“When I was alive, I believed as you do–that time was at least as real and solid as myself and probably more so. I said 1:00 as though I could see it, and “Monday” as though I could find it on a map.”
It feels as though time is our God, and we are its flock of submissive followers. We worship at the feet of time, creating golden idols in the form of clocks and watches. Or at least I do, with my propensity for multi-tasking. Continuing with the wisdom of Peter Beagle:
“We live in houses bricked up with seconds and minutes, weekends and New Year’s Days, and I never went outside until I died, because there was no other door. Now I know that I could have walked through walls.”
Choosing how and where to live during this sabbatical has felt a little like barging through time’s constraining walls. And, at the risk of over-extending this metaphor, my head felt like it had literally barged through a wall when I suffered a concussion from a biking accident. The visit to the ER and two-week recovery period also gave me a new perspective on time as I was required to halt and heal (because let me assure you, prior to the accident, I had stuffed every one of those extra minutes and seconds afforded me by Mother Time with busyness.)
My Cycling Calamity
As the director of the Kitchens Camp Adventure Series, bike-riding tutorials were a part of my summer syllabus. As a Florida native and avid cyclist, I felt like I had the street cred to help my grandchildren become more proficient in their bike riding skills. Biking was an essential form of transportation as a youngster in Orlando, Florida. I still feel that sense of freedom when I mount a bicycle, appreciating the non-polluting air conditioning supplied by summer breezes cooling sweaty brows. Residents of Chicagoland can realistically only ride six months out of the year, unlike their southern counterparts. And, unlike with my childhood biking experience, bike helmets are a must. Not having grown up with helmets, they are an acquired accessory for me. I saw the light several years ago after attending the Winter Park Health Foundation’s Brainfest, at which experts sited scary statistics about the consequences of concussions following bike/motorcycle accidents. I was so inspired I wrote a blog post entitled, “I might look like a dork wearing a bike helmet but at least I don’t look stupid.”
Our threesome dutifully donned helmets each time we ventured out on bicycles. Training sessions graduated from the alley behind my son’s house to bike paths running through public parks. Our outings were going swimmingly until one Sunday afternoon when I decided to lead my junior cyclists on a tour of a nearby neighborhood. I felt like a mother duck guiding her flock across sidewalks and through stop signs. Without the benefit of a rearview mirror, I kept looking back to make sure my ducklings were safe. It must have been one of the times I looked back that I missed seeing a speedbump in the road. I have no recollection of my fall. Fortunately, my husband was with us and was able to call for help. I do faintly remember my Apple watch repeatedly alerting me to a fall. I don’t remember my son rescuing me in the family minivan. I do remember my confusion. “Why am I in Evanston?” I queried family members. “How long are we here? Where are we staying? What does our apartment look like?” I couldn’t fathom we were living in Evanston in a one-bedroom apartment for three months. “You were pretty annoying, Jozy (my grandmother name). You kept asking the same questions over and over again”, admonished my granddaughter. My son was so calm. “Mom, it seems like you have a concussion, and we are going to take you to the emergency room to get checked out.”
It was painful and scary. Fortunately, the CT scan showed no brain bleed or damage. No stiches were required even though I had bitten through my lip, and x-rays indicated there were no broken bones, unlike in my (more than a few) previous bike accidents. I felt so lucky. Even luckier that my son and granddaughter had insisted I fasten the strap on my borrowed bike helmet. I had left it dangling because it was irritating my chin. Those two heroes saved my skull. It is with a grateful heart that I will replace my daughter in law’s lifesaving helmet.
I feel like I was a subject in the shortest longitudinal study on the concept of time ever conducted. Not one hour before my accident, I had been ranting to my daughter-in-law, Katie, about all the details I had managed related to our temporary move from Orlando to Evanston. “My brain is a spreadsheet comprised of details and tasks, some finished, some yet to be tackled, some so unrealistic, there is no chance they will be completed, so I’ll just fret about them instead.”
The next time I saw Katie (a mere one hour later) I couldn’t remember the name of my dog. “I felt like I had whiplash,” Katie confided the next day. “At 4:00 you were stressing about all the things you had to do for your apartment; the next time I saw you, you didn’t even remember you had an apartment.”
Maybe we don’t have to be obsessive multi-taskers worshiping at the feet of the tyrannical Father Time. Maybe God stepped in, hit me on the head and said, slow down. And I was forced to. I guess filling my minutes worrying about whether we have a soap dish in the bathroom is not as important as living in those seconds doing what really matters.
Spending time with my girls at the Highland Park Art Fair is how I want to spend my minutes