Salve for our souls

            Watching children is a fascinating study in how our perception of time changes. When we're young, there's no such thing as not enough time. We play until we're hungry or our parents tell us it's time to come in, take a bath and go to bed.

            There's no Google calendar going off every 15 minutes reminding us about a report that's due, a dental appointment or that it's time to send in the mortgage payment. As we move away from childhood into adulthood, we stay constantly aware of the responsibilities of time.

            Exploring the importance of time isn't anything original on my part. Quotes abound, from Ben Franklin's "Lost time is never found again" to Professor Michael LeBoeuf's "Waste your money and you're only out of money, but waste your time and you've lost a part of your life."

            I shall politely disagree with Professor LeBoeuf because his analysis of wasted time doesn't quite match mine. The first thing that comes to mind when I think about wasting time is sitting around doing nothing.

            It's practically impossible to do nothing any more. We're busy with work, school or family from dusk to dawn, repeat the rush the next day and bang our heads against the counter when we read articles about how to more efficiently manage time so we can fit in a Pilates class.

            Waste time? That doesn't even come into the equation.

            I can, though, recall a couple of hours I spent by a lake this past weekend. I didn't fold any clothes, dust any furniture nor did I take a productive, brisk walk around the shore.

            I simply sat, let my mind drift and, according to the professor, wasted time. But during that wasted time, I solved a couple of problems and found myself thinking about the past.

            One particular memory came floating back – an afternoon 20 years ago at some land out in the country my parents once owned.

            My father's been gone 13 years now, and I distinctly remember the day our whole family gathered at their place. My dad always had big plans for that land, and because he changed his mind so often, we usually tuned him out.

            That afternoon, though, my brother-in-law, John, had a camcorder and recorded my dad talking about all the things he wanted to do at the land.

            We kidded John about wasting time recording Dad's grandiose plans, wondering how he wasn't bored stiff. But John was the only one who understood he was preserving my father's hopes and dreams.

            I'd give anything to go back and waste that afternoon listening to my dad talk about what would make him happy. But I've lost that opportunity, believing I had better things to do.

            Sitting by that lake, I came to a conclusion. I'm going to throw out all the learned advice and try not to hurry through the mundane parts of life.

            In those every-day, sometimes boring moments are where we find clarity. A hummingbird darting through the flowers is a reminder that even the smallest of us will survive if we keep going.

            A child carefully choosing the right crayon for her masterpiece is a reminder to take our time when creating a work of art because creativity simply cannot be rushed.

            An elderly man, standing next to a grove of trees, wearing suspenders and a flannel shirt, isn't wasting time when he's talking about his dreams. And, just as importantly, we're not squandering anything if we stop what we're doing and simply listen.

            Because that's not wasted time.  

            Those moments are salve for our souls.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.