I finally have time, acres of it spread out over a summer that appears to be only summer by the calendar (it’s raining outside), and I’m not using it. Already it feels like I’m wasting it, letting the undedicated hours slide away.
Yesterday, instead of writing watched a public television painting show and the man admonished us novice painters not to fear the white page. Just jump in and paint something. It’s only paper, he said. It’s only paint. You can’t break it.
Well, it’s only time.
Time has been getting faster, recently. I might lose too much of it staring out the window, thinking, and watching rain fall, waiting for the right way to use what I have.