As soon as the two words dropped from my lips, I heard them sink into my stomach with an ache. I couldn't have meant it like that, I think. Not now–now that I'm learning so much about time and life.
I read Four Thousand Weeks around Christmas. And then reread the book immediately as we turned it into the Knitting Club's January chapter.
Four thousand weeks: the number of weeks you'll have assuming you live to eighty. Running with that math, I have about 2300 weeks left.
It's not an awful lot. And yet, here I was, hearing myself use the term "dead time," referring, it seemed, to my time between waking up and starting work, implying my day, my life, didn't begin counting until my workday did.
It wasn't what I meant entirely, of course. But the bit I did shook me enough to want to watch those moments when I appeared to be waiting. And to double down on respecting the mundane. After all, I'll be dead in no time, so better not squander a moment of alive time.
Hi, All! How are you? ☃️ G, Dylan, and I are in Sarajevo for a holiday. We're spending unhurried hours reading, napping, and going for icy wintery walks. Dylan watched the snow fall. And G and I went for a snowboard ride.
Quote That's On My Mind
The problem with 'everything' is that it ends up looking an awful lot like nothing: just one long haze of frantic activity, with all the meaning sheared away. –Katherine May, Wintering