Time and Time Again

I spent part of this morning feeling smug and self-satisfied. I’d written a little musing about the nature of time and how it truly is our constant companion throughout our life. We search for it, lose track of it, wish we could get it back and ultimately – if we’re lucky enough – make some measure of peace with it. All in all, I patted myself on the back for my cleverness.

Occasionally, I re-read my newly published posts, polishing and editing a few words and phrases as I go. Tonight was no different except for the fact that I decided to change the title. Time Waits for No Man just didn’t feel in sync with the overall tone of what followed. So, I went into the blog and transformed it to Time Is on My Side. But after re-publishing, I discovered that I had deleted every single word of the post except the new title. I frantically hit the back arrow. Gone. I checked my Word documents. Unsaved. I was sick to my stomach. Time - ironically - had stopped. "Who's clever now," it mocked.

In the grand scheme of things what happened just a few moments ago is next to nothing. No blood was spilled, no lives were lost (do cats count?). Kidding. And 24 hours from now I will have put the subject of Time where it belongs, in the past. But a friend of mine said that everything happens for a reason – and I have to believe that losing that story had a purpose. But what?

I’ve had that sick feeling enough times in my life (and over much bigger heartaches) to know that it doesn’t linger forever. You probably have too. Eventually it fades from an immediate pain to a dull twinge, until finally - having licked our proverbial wounds for an adequate length of yes, time – the feeling is nothing more than a part of our past. It didn’t grow to define us; the feeling didn’t become all that we were. We didn’t let it. Time heals.

Maybe that’s it. Time is something we all share. What we do with our time - past, present and future – is something we all have control over. Oh sure, I can wallow in self-pity (and definitely wanted to) about my lost words (big deal, so what) or I can use the gift of time to figure out a larger truth from an admittedly minor mis-step. Likewise, we can take as much time as we need to heal from the real moments that drop us to our knees and try to apply some meaning to them that will allow us to move forward with dignity.

F. Scott Fitzgerald once wrote, “There are no second acts in American lives.” I couldn’t disagree more. The luxury of time, and its gifts, allows us to re-make ourselves continually until we get it right, or close enough to a right that we can live with and respect. Then again, Fitzgerald died at the tender age of forty-four from complications due to his alcoholism. Seems he was fighting time every step of the way. Surprising that such a genius could be so dumb. He never learned that time will not be cheated.

But what did I learn? A thunderstorm inspired me twenty-two hours ago to see time as a friend to make peace with, rather than an elusive foe to endlessly search for. And now, as the time has passed midnight, perhaps I‘ve learned what Fitzgerald never did. Time can’t be fought. It can’t be cheated. Time will allow each of us as much of itself as we need. And treated gently, time will become our friend and allow us to start again, anew.