The Passing of Time

My son turned six last week.  While we were celebrating his birthday morning with blueberry pancakes and presents, he opened a pair of soccer socks with the logo of his favorite team, Manchester United.  Delighted with the socks, he asked the curious question, "How many years has it been since soccer stopped?"  Since soccer is played daily all around the world, and therefore has not "stopped", we pressed him to explain.  He said, "You know, how many years since it has been on television?"  What he actually wanted to know was how long it had been since the World Cup ended.  In his mind, it had been several years since the televised tournament.  In fact, it had only been 3 months.

His poor dejected face dropped when we explained that the World Cup had just taken place in July, and that it wouldn't start again for another 4 years.  4 years!  In the mind of a child, 3 months is an eternity.  How long will 4 years feel?

Yet for me (an adult woman who is not quite willing to release her age) sitting there gazing at his face, the past six years were erased in an instant, and he was just a baby, an infant, with no thoughts yet of soccer or birthdays or presents.  The time since his birth was a blink, a sliver, a mere moment.  Yet here he was, 6 years old and counting, just days away from being a young man.

Time is a constant and unchanging thing.  But the way it feels to us, how long or short, how painful or freeing, depends entirely on our perspectives and circumstances.  Today I wish to freeze time, as each passing minute takes me further away from my boy as a baby.  But tomorrow I may wish to speed time up, as I eagerly await the start of the Christmas holidays.  Regardless of my wishes and thoughts, I am certain of this.  Time may bring me pain and heartache, change and conflict, but it will always bring with it laughter and joy, love and friendship, life and beauty.  And soccer.  After all, where would the world be without soccer?

For more information on my son's favorite team, visit http://www.premierleague.com/page/manchester-united

If time seems to be either too fast or too slow to you, please leave me a comment and let me know!

The Difference a Good Cup of Coffee Can Make

Oh Monday!  Cruel, unrelenting Monday!  How harsh is your arrival in the morning as I hide under the soft down comforter.  Even the sun behind the fog is hiding from you.  Couldn't you once just pass me by?  I can not bear to face you, with your schedules and chores and tasks and demands.

But wait...  what is that I smell?  Wafting up the stairs to me, infiltrating my down-covered cave.  I throw back the blanket and rise from the bed.  One foot in front of the other.  Past the laundry hamper spilling over, down the steps with their chipped paint, through the hallway in need of a vacuum.  There.  On the counter.  The beautiful black machine with the musical sounds of dripping and steaming.

I grab a mug and fill it with the dark and delicious drink.  I breath in the aroma.  I take my first hesitant sip, testing the temperature.  Then I take a large gulp, full of creamy roasted goodness.  And I smile.

Don't you just love Mondays?

For all you other coffee lovers out there, here's a link to my favorite coffee of the moment.  Hope your first cup of coffee this morning was as good as mine.

http://www.harrybeanscoffee.com/

An Autumn Poem in Honor of my Husband, the English Teacher.

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd

With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit

Beneath my shady roof; there thou mayst rest,

And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,

And all the daughters of the year shall dance!

Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

"The narrow bud opens her beauties to

The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;

Blossoms hand round the brows of Morning, and

Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,

Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing

And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

"The spirits of the air live in the smells

of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round

The gardens, or sits singing in the trees."

Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,

Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak

Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

William Blake says it far better than I.  I need to look no further than the light filtering through the orange lace on the trees in my search for inspiration.  If you have a photo of your own that captures the golden load of Autumn, please post them to this blog and share your inspiration with us!