Day 241 of Project 365: Time is on my side.

Lately I’ve been struggling with time management. At work, there rarely seems to be enough time to get things done. At home, there is never enough time to relax before I have to get back to work. And on the bus, time smushes up so that even when I have extra hours to read, to listen to podcasts, or simply to ponder life, I do a little of those and a lot more dozing off.

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One thing is for certain right now: I’m not spending enough time writing. I’m heartsick whenever I realize another day has gone by without significant progress on any draft. Eleven weeks into the new job and I’m fixating on being unable to write short stories on the bus. Something is wrong here and I need to figure it out.

Day 161 of Project 365: Stretching time.

When we arrived at the airport this evening to drop my mom off, the check-in desk was closed. Since the sign on it said it would still be closed for an hour yet, we all piled back in the car and went to Pix Patisserie and had coffee and macarons.

I know you can’t really stretch time, but it was almost like we could. Just for an hour, the flower unbloomed.

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Writing from: my suddenly-empty study. Listening to: “The Nearness of You” by Bill Charlap.…

sage and ginger

One crow sits on the porch and his caw seems timed, a perfect heartbeat. I am putting moisturizer on my face, stuff I bought because it was additive-free and on sale, stuff I would not buy normally even if I could afford it, which I can’t. I am thinking of what I am not thinking of.

I don’t often get caught in this loop, just sometimes when I am tracing an old pattern. The crow’s caws trick my brain into silence. Thoughts settle like sediment and then I think: what am I not thinking of?

For once, I am not thinking of guilt over my morning routine, of how long it takes or how loud each movement might be.

The house smells like last night’s sage and ginger. One cat’s meow forces syncopation. Then the crow leaves, and it is just bare feet on wood floor, fur against shin, the rustling of a comforter. Time ticks again, and tugs with it a long rope of schedules and increments. That moment of no-moment was enough.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.