Time lost, “bookselves”, our tree rings

I recently returned from visiting mom down south and I wanted to go back. I always enjoy our time together, esp. when we swim the ocean at sunset and long talks over the swell of waves.

I only stayed a few days to rush back and get a move on camper renovation stuff only to realize when I got back that it could have waited a bit longer. That time with family is so precious (and short on earth!) it ought to be a priority rather than something stored in-between things to do.

Next time I should remember to stop and ask myself:

*Do I really need to do this thing and put off extra time spent with mom?”

Had I paused my mind and asked this I would have stayed.

Once again this speaks to cultivating awareness and not mindlessly rushing to and fro.

Awareness lost is time lost.

I ran into a regular at the local pool I frequent (’tis wonderful relief after those long, hot hikes) and we started talking for the first time. In the past all I knew of her was her friendly smile and wave.

It was fascinating. The more we talked the more I learned about her — her identity was unfolding itself in the eye of my mind. The things we told each other of our adventures and life, etc. all in a span of a few minutes was amazing and a reminder that we all have stories to tell and share.

That those we see across the room and don’t know have untold depths of layers far more than we could ever imagine. That what we see is only a tiny fragment of who they really are.

Books. We’re all unopened books stuffed with chapters of life within. When we open our bookselves to each other we’re forever enriched.

Oh the stories we could tell…

When I was first walloped by Lyme disease, my beard rapidly turned white.

A few years later when I had COVID (mild, even) white streaks started appearing in what’s left of my red hair.

It’s so strange to witness visible changes like that. And how aging sneaks up on you.

I always thought it’d be more gradual and maybe it is but when your body undergoes major shocks everything is thrown out of whack.

So when I see my hair I’m reminded of those fallen trees whose rings share tales of moments of trauma over their long years.¹