One of the more profound evolutions happening as I age is my relationship with time. When I was a kid it was so stretch-y and bend-y and abundant. It inched along and felt like summer. Time represented all that was ahead, and I couldn’t get to it fast enough.
By my 40s, as I was neck-deep in running my magazine, I realized time was the thing I had the least of and craved the most. And it was exactly 10 years ago, on my 46th birthday, that I was finally brave enough to lay the magazine down and take a leap of faith into the unknown, leaving what I thought was my whole identity behind. It was terrifying and freeing and an act of courage I’m incredibly proud of. That ending opened up space and gave me time to experience new things, be with my mom as she aged, and stumble my way into this new iteration of my life that makes me happier than I could have ever imagined.
In the past few years, though, I’ve realized I’m still in some kind of tripped-up dance with time. Where my entire sense of accomplishment revolves around checking things off my to-do list, and if I’m not using time to accomplish something then I’m squandering it. Because, let’s face it—time’s non-renewable and there’s no valve to slow it down or stop it from running out. So there’s still the battle of wanting more time, yet choosing to fill what I have with things that use it all up.
This week, on my 56th birthday, I’ve thought so much about one of the greatest parting gifts my mom gave me. And that was helping me view my relationship with time through the lens of simply being present.
About a month before Mom died we had just gotten to the beach for our 3-month stay there, and I had dragged my to-do list along for the ride. If I was going to spend that much time at a place that was supposed to be relaxing, then I was certainly going to get things accomplished! Update my website, prep our taxes, do the next year’s schedule—all things that seemed so important since time was so available there. And as I got more and more focused on those projects my patience with her got shorter and shorter as she’d interrupt me or want my attention. Days into it she started spinning, getting more confused and feeling like she was a burden on me, and one morning I finally lost it and made her cry.
And it absolutely broke me.
I hugged her and apologized, took a deep breath, realized that my to-do list and self-imposed deadlines really didn’t matter, and put it all away so I could just be with her. And what turned out to be her last few weeks on earth were so sweet and slow—like days felt when I was a child, but without the desire for them to go faster. There was no battle with time, just the simplicity of being present, listening, walking, watching sunsets, telling stories and remembering what we could. I came to believe that those are the things we get to take with us when we go—the simple moments wrapped up in just being present with people we love. When someone gives us the gift of their time in that way, it’s priceless. And it’s everything.
To celebrate this birthday, my pal Jonatha Brooke changed her flight home after her Nashville workshop and concert so she could stay an extra day to celebrate, hang out on the porch swing with me and Rose, and enjoy time together doing absolutely nothing. And it was priceless. It was everything.
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