It's been one of those weeks where I've spent a lot of time muttering darkly to myself. If only I had more time, I could get everything done and not be running round like a maniac. I've had too much of the wrong kind of time, short bursts in between meetings so it's been impossible to be as productive as I'd like. I want time to go faster, things to happen quicker. I want time to slow down. I need to spend more time with the people I love. 5 minutes here and there is not enough, and yet it's everything. I want more time to relax, to do the things I want to do. I want to be able to read for more than the 10 minutes before I fall asleep at bedtime. I want to be awake enough to knit when I have the time.
And yet, and yet... when I do have the time, when I am awake, when I could spend an afternoon reading, when I get this thing called a weekend, I spend that time cleaning, or food shopping, or cooking. I can't sit still. Reading for a couple of hours would be a complete waste of that time, wouldn't it?
But time works in mysterious ways. This weekend I went to stay with a friend. I had exactly the same amount of time, but I spent it knitting. I spent it reading. I read a whole book in the space of a weekend. (More on that in another post.) So maybe it's not about time at all. Maybe it's about space.
