March slipped through time. It came and it went as a moment in infinity. Unnoticed unless I take the time to look back at it. When I do, it sits more like a lump of hard clay now molded and unbendable. On facebook I posted March: 25,211 words written on a project, 12 wash loads, 1 caucus, 5 dinners with friends, 2 radio interviews, 1 funeral, 0 sickness, still married, 3 blogs, guess those are good numbers.
In retelling a space of time that sounds quite busy. But it reports nothing. March had 744 hours. I’m reporting on about 100 hours. Sleeping accounts for around 217 hours, sleeping and my accounting is till less than half of March at 317 hours. Of course there’s fixing meals, eating, washing dishes, buying groceries, paying bills, showering, all that primping stuff. Could it be another 100 hours? Now, I’m loosely at 417.
There were several board meetings at Neighborhood House, the Arts Council and inevitable committee meetings for each one. A vision test, a charity dinner, the time it takes to drive to each one; so many things to keep me busy. And The Voice, Modern Family and House Hunters International on television.
Perhaps I’m at about 467 hours. Doing things. All of those things were important to do in the richness of a full life. It’s all very romantic and if I were a poet maybe I could capture an essence or a reason. But then again, so what? I’m doing near the same thing this month with variations only as different as facade one or facade two on a house. I’m out of town a few days, paying taxes, going to to see Rock of Ages, working more in the garden. I’m assuming I’ll remain married. There isn’t a lot to be gained by being nostalgic with so much to do now.
Plus, I prefer to keep some of the privacy of the inner workings of self that brings it all together. Gives it the sticky gluten that binds intention to action. That I hope to use elsewhere. In the steadiness of the look from my eyes because of what it added to me. In the the touch I can give people because I know what it’s like to live a day of seeming nothing that is a telling tale. In the quiet of my heart that now has those thirty-one days more to draw from.
I am rambling.