Tag: family

On the Tempo of Time

I’ve often been envious of my dog because he isn’t as acutely aware of the passage of time as I am. For the most part, he lives in the moment. He alternately chomps or licks his squeaky toys when he’s inside, fetches his frisbee in the yard, explores the universe of shrubs, sticks, and other dogs on the trail, eats at his established mealtimes, and sleeps when he’s tired. What a fantastic life that must be!

Border Collie with a very long stick (still attached to the ground at one end)
The bigger the stick, the better: Tock in his happy place.

A dog doesn’t have to think about how rapidly the months pass, how the holidays roll around when it seems we just finished with them, how the aches of our aging bodies and the battle scars in our minds keep multiplying so that waking up in the morning is often just as painful as going to sleep.

But when I give this more thought, I realize that of course my dog must acknowledge time even though he can’t put it into words. For one thing, he can no longer leap into the car without a thought, but is forced to slow down and use a humiliating step. For another, he lives through the ebb and flow of seasons along with me—the lush green growing of spring (sticks in the pond!), the lazy heat of summer (the beach! the lake!), the crisp change of fall (extra food in the bowl!), the frigid cold (snowballs!) of winter.

Border Collie trotting ahead down trail through a lush green forest

On a deeper level, I wonder whether my dog is aware of the nuances in time that happen every day for me. Boring or painful things take forever, like cleaning the bathroom, driving in traffic to get groceries, trying to get back to sleep at 3 am, trying to stay awake and write when I’m not feeling inspired, or enduring unpleasant muscle spasms in my back. So immersed am I in my misery that I can hardly imagine an end to them, a time when once again my life will be more pleasant.

I hope Tock doesn’t experience such anguish, but I fear he might. Every morning, he stands at my side while I eat breakfast, imploring me with his eyes to hurry up so we can go for our walk. Does the wait feel interminable to him? Likewise, the wait for his dinner when he lies at my feet while I’m writing and the “dinner bird” (that sings on the clock at 4pm) has long since sung. Does he wonder whether he’s ever going to be fed? Worst of all are his trips to the vet. Before we even enter the building, all he wants to do is leave. He spends the entire time staring at or pulling toward the door, his toenails scrabbling ineffectively on the hard, cold tiles. Poor guy. He must feel like his punishment is lasting forever.

A clock with a bird for each hour
Tock becomes very attentive once the dinner bird (House Wren) has sung.

What about the good things, though? Walks in the woods on a perfect spring day, when the temperature and humidity are just right and the bugs haven’t yet emerged in droves. Working on my trail system at the family summer place. Listening to marmots whistle amidst sun-warmed talus slopes. Playing cards with my son and occasional reluctant husband. Writing when I’m in the zone and the thoughts flow fast. For me, these things sail by. I feel as though I’ve scarcely begun when they’re coming to an end.

I hope this cruel trick that time plays isn’t the same for Tock. I hope time stretches out for him when he’s happy even longer than it does when he’s not.

Border Collie lying in grass with a frisbee between his front paws

Of course, nothing would seem so wonderful if it lasted forever, right? In the best of all possible worlds, we’d move from one delightful thing to another, and another, and another. Last summer after Tock and I spent six timeless, satisfying hours on trail work, I admit that nothing felt so good as finishing for the day, putting my feet up, and eating a good meal. Tock would not have appreciated the shower, but he had a big dinner and a well-earned rest.

Though time ticks relentlessly onward and we can never re-visit the past (how I would love to hug my former dogs again!), it has proven very helpful in its effect on my memory. The good memories stretch out in a long golden glow that I can enjoy for as long as I want. Meanwhile, the bad memories have shrunk to nearly nothing. The super unpleasant sensation of childbirth, for instance, has totally vanished, as if my son were born in an instant. But I’ll forever remember the experience of holding him for the first time. The memory of devouring some homemade brownies after all that hard labor is pretty special, too. As for Tock, I’m hopeful that he’s reliving his best memories when his legs twitch during a dream.

Sleeping Border Collie surrounded by toys

What causes time to alter its tempo for you? Does it compress or expand depending on the nature of the moment you’re experiencing? Even if your legs don’t twitch when you’re dreaming, does time slow down when you remember the good things? It’s my hope that time can reward us all in that one small way.

Happy Tales!

Transitions

Or: How to Carry On When You’d Rather Dig Your Heels into the Ground and Grind to a Halt

I’ve said this before, but I’m terrible at accepting change. One of the toughest adjustments for me isn’t even that bad. It’s something we all experience on a regular basis. It pales in comparison to traumatic life events like major illness, divorce, job or home loss, war, and death. Many of us probably welcome it, in fact. Yet still, I struggle with it, every year.

Large maple tree in field with some orange leaves mixed in with the green
The Faerie Tree is beginning to turn.

You may have guessed what I’m talking about: the seasons. Given my current location in the Northern Hemisphere, I specifically mean the transition from summer to fall. Late-summer days with the crickets chirring and the pleasant-but-not-hot sun warming my face are, to me, the definition of perfection. The natural world feels calm and friendly. I experience moments of certainty that everything is fine, and will continue to be so forever.

It really does not get much more sublime than this.

Wise people say that perfection is boring. So why is it so hard for me to part ways with the old family summerhouse: the high built-in bookshelves stuffed full of musty tomes, the quaint kitchen ice box, the six generations of family photographs and portraits, the many porches and white-gabled windows, the half-mile-long forested driveway, the view from the bluff of the distant Manitou Islands? Even tougher to leave behind is the land itself: the 200 steps down to the beach, the half mile of wild Lake Michigan waves, the bears, porcupines, and foxes, the 2.5 miles of hiking trails that I poured gallons of sweat into building for hours each day this summer. On my last walk of the trail system the day before our departure, I paused at each of the landmarks I’d named on the trail to say goodbye. That was the saddest end to summer for me.

Left to right from top: Fern Gully, Haunted Birch Grove, Precarious Plunge, Southern Wilds, Streams of Consciousness, Terrace of Triumph, The Monarchy, Vista Sur, Wanderer Track

But the house is not winterized and must sit shuttered and cold throughout fall, winter, and early spring. None of us live remotely close to it, so we can’t visit during those months, either. Not that I would want to – when the nighttime temperature begins to dip into the 40’s, the house starts to feel more like a refrigerator than a home, and it never quite warms up enough during the days. It is a necessary goodbye, and one I understand completely if I stick with the logical side of my brain.

Dog in winter jacket on a snowy slope in early morning
Not all of us love a frozen landscape (Tock begs to differ).

Unfortunately, my brain has a creative, romantic, illogical side as well. It’s this part of me that pats the trunks of the big trees to try to remember the feel of each rough rib of bark. It’s this part that grips the handrails on my last climb up the bluff as if I will never let go. It’s this part that says a silent farewell to all the other bits of myself that have embedded in this summer place as we bump down the dirt drive on our way back to our “real” lives.

Dog trotting along a long, sun-dappled driveway in a deciduous forest

How do I carry on after such a transition? Naturally, I look to my dog. He’s dedicated like no other to the sand, the water, and the trail-building, yet he displays no regrets when it’s time to leave. He simply curls into a ball on the seat and becomes a road-tripping Zombie Dog for as long as it takes to get to his next fun adventure. He’s delighted to return to his other house, his other toys, his other woods and ponds. He doesn’t care that his primary house has little history, that the neighboring woods must be shared with other people and dogs, that his owners don’t spend three-quarters of the day outside anymore. If he could speak, he’d probably reassure me that this is his time to catch up on sleep, to dream of the scents and sounds he stored over the summer (at least, when he’s not reacquainting himself with the scary sheep on the farm next door).

Dog curled up in a small bed with a blanket on top

If he can do it, I can, too. During the coming damp, cold winter days, I’ll pull up the pictures of my fifty-nine trail landmarks. I’ll remember what it felt like to tread past them atop the sandy soil, cedar roots, and birch bark. I’ll think of the sound of the waves, the funky smell of the goldenrod, the sight of a fat porcupine waddling over the birch logs that I’d dragged in place to keep the trail out of the mud. I don’t think I’ll ever relish winter the way one might if one has fur and a penchant for snowballs, but my memories of summer will push me along. At some point, those memories will turn into hopes. They’ll pull me toward an enticing future summer that I wouldn’t even know I had to look forward to if I’d never had to leave. I can picture my dog already, rousing himself from his back-seat slumber and pressing his nose to the window when he senses we’re getting close to a change. To something different, interesting, and precious. Always precious.

Dog standing in a meadow near a thicket of shrubs and trees
The Tangle of the Tyrants (invasive Russian Olive) lies just ahead. One of these years, we’ll get it all cleared and I’ll rename this landmark.

Maybe if summer weren’t ephemeral, it wouldn’t be so sublime. Those mythical wise people must know what they’re talking about.

Happy Tales!