Tempus Fugit
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Time flies and the older I get, the
faster it fugits. As I contemplate yet another birthday, that mean ol’ tempus
is fugiting at the speed of light.
To add injury to insult, this weekend
we will set the clocks ahead in Mexico. I know, you up north are already over
the shock of change. In a few days I
will struggle to remember what time it really is, whatever that means, since
“time” is but an arbitrary measure.
Before I wax too philosophical, let
me change directions and note that my snowbird friends are flying north at jet
speed.
Crin left for Victoria last Sunday.
Julie flew back to Minneapolis yesterday. Jim leaves for Missouri next Sunday.
John and Carol are heading out in another two weeks. Pat and Nancie have been
gone for three weeks. Kathy and Richard leave again the end of April.
Like kiwi birds or emus, Lani and I
will be left, summer-time flightless birds. Oops, Lani plans to sprout wings in
May and fly north for an extended period of time. Woe is me, alone and
abandoned.
Try as I might, I am unable to
squeeze out even a crocodile tear since Saturday four of us are sneaking off to
Cancun for a week of fun in the eastern sun. At last, I will get to see the Caribbean,
unexplored territory. Happy Birthday to me.
When my friends go north, they leave
a hole in my soul and a hole in my daily life. We don’t do all things as a
group but our paths criss-cross with frequency. Just this week I had lunch with
two different friends. Plus, one afternoon six of us women drove up the
mountain to Restaurante Don Luis for a three hour meal that was more laughter
than food.
Judging by stories I am told, the
original folks who built these homes we now inhabit, had common ground. They
were travelers with campers and RVs, were retired military, and liked to party
hearty. Oh, we here are so different!
The other night, sitting on my
patio, Julie and I agreed, our present conglomeration of residents, whom I have
come to love so quickly, have absolutely nothing in common. We come from quirkily
diverse backgrounds. At times we act on one another like sandpaper. Whatever
our roughness, we smooth it out. We share food, borrow ladders and trade
plants.
We are all
mature enough to know to look inside our own guts first when we have a problem
with another person.
Time. Time is a great helper, a revealer, more often than
not, replacing petty snarls and sniffs with understanding and respect.
Sandpaper or time, we interact with varying and shifting degrees of tolerance,
acceptance and downright liking.
Perhaps it is no accident we were each drawn to be here at
this time in life; perhaps there is a strange, unknowable, purpose in grinding
our rough edges. Or not.
One by one, we arrived to fill the empty houses. I came to
visit my cousin. Others came to visit me. Some were in the adjacent campground
and ended up staying to restore a trashed house. None of our stories connect
through common ground.
So sometimes we grind against one another. Some sand paper is
fine; other paper is coarse. We seem to smooth out any bumps. I’ll miss my
friends when they are all gone. But I am easy with my solitude.
Before I’m alone again, I will move forward the hands on the
face of my clock. I will fly with friends to Cancun in yet another time zone
and be totally confused. What time is it? Time to celebrate my birthday with
chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream. Skip the candles, please.
When I return home, I shall remember that time has a very
special grit of sandpaper for we who live alone. Meanwhile, tempus fugit.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
April 4,
2019
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