Once upon a time, I was thirteen years old and mystified by Algebra I.  I still am.  Math has never been my strong suit.  But I do remember reading the preface to the text book.  Don't ask me why I read the preface; I don't know.  But I'm glad I did because the single thing I do remember from Algebra I, I read in that preface.  

 

The preface asked a question: 

 'Why does time seem to speed up as we get older?'

According to the author, there's a simple mathematical explanation:  When you're four years old, one year feels like an endless wait between Christmases because one year is such a huge percentage of your life.  However, with each additional year, one year becomes a smaller percentage of the life you've lived and so, pretty soon, like when you get to my age, it feels like Christmas roles around almost before you know it.

It's a simple explanation, but it's not satisfying.  In fact, subjectively speaking, I think of it as a cruel joke.  

It's a sad irony that as time speeds up, I want desperately to slow it down, to hit the pause button, to savor the time I have left in slow motion.  To no avail however; my perception of time continues to accelerate and life gallops by at warp speed.

And then, of course, there's another question:  What is time for?  Algebra can't explain that one.

When I was young, I thought time was for making a splash and turning heads, for manipulating the universe so as to insure that I was the center of my own little galaxy and everything and everyone in it was firmly in my orbit.  

 Sort of the definition of callow youth.  

Now, however, the time I have left is for one thing and one thing only:  LOVE.  Time to love my family, my dog, my friends, music, poetry, good books, long walks, and just sitting quietly, drinking in the beauty of the surrounding woods. 

My husband was out West last week. He spent a week in Steamboat, Colorado skiing.  (Bob might well say that skiing is what his time is for!)  Even though my two sons were home with me, the house was gray and empty without Bob. While I was missing him one morning, I wrote this little poem.

 But this poem is not just about Bob.  No, it's a love letter to the entire festival of life.  I am so grateful to the gods for having invited me to this party and I wish it never had to end.

 

Everything would be so fine

Except for time: it slips away

Lifelines etched across my palms

That once were long, now scarce remain

Truth be told, as I get old

I love you more, that's all time's for

Be Well and Good Luck

Martha Maria