Time flies . . . I remember my great Aunt Cel saying that when I was a youngster and thought the only time that flew was play time. Other time dragged.
But somewhere in the course of my own life, I began to understand. I don’t know exactly when that was, but one day I woke and realized how many years had passed while I wasn’t paying attention. I had been busy with children and a home and a half-time career. I grabbed solace in a book on the run, fretted over bills, attended children’s activities while the days sped by. Back then there wasn’t time to appreciate them.
Now my children are approaching middle age (What does that make me?); I’ve had more money than month for a long time; and my career is still half-time, although it isn’t the freelance writing career I had for a quarter century. I’m now a financial manager. Go figure.
So just when did I notice that time flies? I think it was after life’s struggles became less prominent in my day-to-day existence, after it was less about happiness and more about satisfaction, less about achievement and more about appreciation.
Maybe it’s one of the benefits of growing older. There’s time to value the sunrise, green grass in September, the fact that if the stock market tanks you can still survive, the voice of an old friend, family photos that span decades, beauty in a piece of music. Each day is a pearl on an endless necklace of them, each to be fingered lovingly before moving on.
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