Though it works hard it’s the slowest clock I’ve ever seen, falling behind by an hour or more every day. I finished my first two weeks in the new job, celebrated our wedding anniversary late, worked through some issues with our kids. Went to the mall with my mom to return a pair of shoes, agreed we’d meet in an hour but got confused on the exact meeting spot, then waited an hour longer for each other, a hundred yards apart. Went back to the tavern on Mercer Island and played the jukebox, split a burrito. Stopped by the store for frozen pizzas, for dinner. Came back home, reset the clock.

The rain washed away the pollen, thick as the ash from last summer’s wildfires. We saw the coyote in the back yard again and ran outside, but it disappeared. It’s impossible to sleep past 6 with the light this time of year, and I kind of begrudge it. It must be open fishing season because the lake’s covered with anglers in boats now, or out on the dock with their umbrellas. I showed Dawn and my mom the draft speech I wrote about women in technology for my client, and they liked it — but then mom wordsmithed me and Dawn joined in, so I took my lap top back and closed it.

Time is strange, mom and I agreed, remembering when she first came and we went to Charlotte’s recorder concert at the school. I was in my old job still, and we flew back to Pennsylvania for spring break. Mom said it feels likes she’s been here for a year already: we toggle in and out of verb tenses from past to future every day, and the present’s the hardest to master.

Every morning walking to the lake to wake up, or stopping on the street to look for something I haven’t seen before. I feel these days slip away, the kids different and me too, why it seems we have to hurry in to every moment. I tried to sleep in but couldn’t, came downstairs for a coffee, said today instead of walking to the lake I’m going to sit down and just write. It’s Sunday.

Photo taken at Bellevue Square mall, old Bellevue.

Post title from Doctor John song, 1968.

Categories: Memoir, prose, writing

Tags: journal writing, mid-life crisis, mindfulness, short form, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer, work-life balance