Now that I am old, truly old, 96 years old, I have the gift of time, unending time. I go to bed when I please, get up when I please, eat when I please, and do exactly what I want to do at each particular moment.
Once I never had enough time. Once I was always short of time. Now time seems continuous and unending, a powerful stream on which to float and meander.
No more obedience to lists, plans, and agendas, the nearly impossible task of raising children, of studying for and taking tests, of trying to be in the right place at the right time, of hoping to please myself while pleasing others. My children are grown, my jobs are done, my books are published, my needs are few, and each advancing day brings an abundance of unlimited moments.
If I find myself staring at clouds, watching a clutch of birds in the maple near my window, or taking a nap, I don’t worry about what I might have done instead. I am old, truly old, and out of the running.
Nothing seems more beautiful or precious to me than time. I am glad to have had so many years to fight for those things I admired, desired, and believed in.
But the time for work and jobs that must be done has passed. Now I can give Time itself my full and adoring attention.