Time

On many an occasion in the past I have found myself bemoaning the fact that I didn’t have enough time to do all the things I wanted to. My list was long and growing daily despite managing to cross a fair number of items off regularly.

Sometimes I’d get really enthusiastic and go hell for leather and get a whole heap of things done, but then slip back into my comfort zone of not finishing projects. This has been a pattern all of my life — not just something new.

I do crochet— for fun, to achieve and because I like it. My family get new crochet beanies every winter — different colours, patterns and styles. It’s my way of stretching my brain with new patterns and showing love. I get enthused and print out patterns plus spend far too much time on Pinterest looking for ideas. Recently we had a new grandchild and I gained so much pleasure crocheting tiny garments for the forthcoming baby — now he is here and many of the items I made missed the mark. He was too small and then he was too big or just maybe they weren’t aesthetically pleasing. Who knows? But I had fun doing them and I continue to crochet when the mood strikes me.

But when I assess my works in progress there are always several items that aren’t finished. Either I get bored with them or I decide to try something new for a change. Every few months I get out the unfinished projects and make a concerted effort to finish them. And when I’m done it feels awesome. But then it happens all over again.

Mind, I could be doing this every evening when I’m watching television, but often I just can’t be bothered or the cat wants to sit on my knee. Such a good excuse.

Over the past eighteen months or so we have been in lockdowns of varying degrees. The current one has us unable to visit family or friends, which sucks big time but I understand why it has to be this way. I don’t have to like it, but if it means that friends and family don’t get sick with the virus then I’m very happy with that.

But lockdowns give us so much time to contemplate, to do stuff that needed doing when we couldn’t find the time. So I’ve cleaned and re-organised cupboards, loaded up the car with bags of stuff for the op-shop. I’ve cooked, cleaned, sewed, read books and watched shows I wouldn’t normally. But I didn’t write at all. Generally I’ve felt rather pleased with my achievements yet there is always more to do.

Time is a strange concept really. We complain that we don’t have enough of it, then we have too much time on our hands. Or we find ourselves running out of it. We think there is plenty of it and then find ourselves racing against it to get things finished. We really are a silly race sometimes.

Lockdowns have given me the gift of time and it is up to me to use it wisely or not. I’ve used it to contemplate my life and I’ve come to the conclusion that there have been occasional periods of depression — times when I have felt overwhelmed and unable to cope. Which is probably why I haven’t been writing. But once again time comes to the rescue and allows me to examine and move on. I’ve decided that it is probably a normal part of life and perhaps necessary for us to experience so that when the good times come we have a point of reference to rate our feelings.

Depression is not all bad — and I appreciate that there are varying degrees of it and those with severe depression suffer greatly. But the mild sort that comes to us all at times is possibly there for good reason.

I remember just after Kelly died and I was still extremely distressed, I decided to allow myself to have a few days experiencing it. Allowing myself to feel sad and sorry for myself — to wallow even, and then I would get on with my life.

So even now — twenty-one years later I have times when I feel really down, and that’s okay because I know it won’t last. Those times are there to remind me of how much I have to be grateful for and how blessed I was for the time I had her in my life.