And This Time Around

There is time and space between the tipping of the water glass and the splash of water on the floor. Brick by brick, build this life. 

I have time, so much time. In between and before and before and before. I sleep more hours than I have in years. Work less than I ever have. And yet. I am tired. Always short on time. Too much time. I watch the clock. Never sure of the hour. Just that I am behind. Or ahead. Never on time. Time and time and time.

She handed me a pocket watch on a necklace chain. It is time.

I flipped the glass of water the night stand. I opened the blinds. The water has not yet reached the floor. The sun has not yet arisen. In seconds less than a deep breath, the water will splash, the sun will emerge. But I am holding my breath. Never certain of certainty.

Brick by brick, build this life.

If I wait with held breath for the water to meet the wood floor.
If I am expecting the night to never end.
If I am watching the clock's second hand.
If I am tired.
Can I muster the patience, the strength, the faith to build this life brick by brick?

Begin now. Even if.

I believe in beginnings. I create beginnings. Do I leave in the middle? For new beginnings? Give up and fail and abort the middle. I believe in beginnings.

Begin now. In spite of.

Eat healthier, send more cards, take a photo, write a blog entry, make a mistake, say yes, say no, make coffee at home, take care of the body, take care of things, get rid of things, pick up the phone, plan trips, give more hugs, laugh harder, squeal more often, take more walks, spend time alone, read more, meditate, make it all a habit, cry harder, write and write and write, focus on what matters.

[I bought books on kindle for the itouch/iphone. As not to carry heavy pages to work and back each day. As not to box them up and move them in the future. As not to spend more money. And daydreamed about having a library someday. I woke up and realized I need books, the kind I can hold, to have a library. Buy books. Flip through the pages. Read. Everyday. And build that library day by day.]

I begin and I realize: this all has always been. I lay the same bricks: writing, photography, healthy decisions, travel, affection, books. I have spaces to write; months, years, decades of logged words; a camera and thousands of pictures; a coffee pot and organic sugar; Whole Foods gift cards; books on my shelf waiting for my time. I worry less about abandoning middles. I worry less about patience and strength and faith. I have moved from hope to faith. I have moved from beginnings to middles. I am building brick by brick. Each brick feels like a new beginning. But I place it down in the middle.

I flipped the glass of water the night stand. I opened the blinds. The water has not yet reached the floor. The sun has not yet arisen. It will. It will.

[It will. And this time around, I'll talk about it. All of it.]