There Never Seems To Be Enough Time
We’re not going on vacation this year, for which my children are doubtlessly grateful. They could use the rest.
My vacations are like other people’s military maneuvers. We march “X” miles a day, bivouac at a motor hotel, secure our objective, reconnoiter the sights, then move out. About the only thing left to fate is fuel stops, and that’s only because Exxon doesn’t take reservations.
Even when I play, it’s on a schedule designed for maximum efficiency. Meaning that, while a normal human being might spend his evening reading, watching television or playing computer games, I do all of the above at the same time.
Which is, of course, the problem: time. There wasn’t enough to begin with. Now that I’m older, there’s even less.
I was a happier man before I figured that out. More accurately, I was a FREER man.
Once, many years ago, I inadvertently took a wrong turn driving home from work. Ended up lost for hours, motoring through unfamiliar parts of town looking in vain for a recognizable street or landmark.
I could’ve asked directions but didn’t - and it wasn’t because of that male pride thing, either. Rather, it was because that younger me had no sense of wasted time, no clock to answer to, nothing better to do than to live in the moment and let it take me where it wished.
That couldn’t happen now. I hoard time like fine wine. God forbid it should be wasted.
Lost, I would panic, become terribly apprehensive about showing up late for the appointment, messing up the schedule or just missing “The Simpsons.” Like many people, I’m always pushing beyond the moment, so concerned with tonight, tomorrow, next year, that I miss the urgent joy of now.
Last year’s vacation brought a moment of clarity. We were driving through the Pennsylvania countryside. The kids were asleep, the radio was off, the highway stretched ahead, open as far as the eye could see.
For once, we had plenty of time. For once, I wasn’t obsessed with “getting there.” Didn’t give a thought to work - or play. Wasn’t silently lamenting the state of the universe. For once, I was fully involved in the moment - in that one irreplaceable fraction of my days. Driving along with my entire world in the back seat, I felt the vise release my chest as that cavity filled with something so unfamiliar I had to search for its name.
Contentment.
And that, I realized, is all I have ever aspired to.
It’s funny when you think about it. In the name of contentment, we race the rats and hoard the seconds, pester the calendar and curse the clock. But it’s like trying to run to the store on a treadmill. You make the motions but never reach the destination.
“There’ll never be enough time to see it all,” complained a colleague the other day as we were rushing across country on assignment, seeing one breathtaking sight after another. This from a guy who’s traveled the world. It was a brick wall of a reality check.
He’s right, I realized. There will never be enough time. And not just for the Eiffel Tower or the Sphinx.
There’ll never be enough time for ice cream, either. Never enough time to read all the books. Never enough to get my fill of my daughter’s laughter as her kite catches the breeze.
Never enough time.
Understanding that is, I suspect, another brick in the road to wisdom. But there’s a world of difference between understanding the thing and making peace with it. Maybe old people know how it’s done, but they aren’t talking. Maybe there are no words.
Meanwhile, neither young nor old, I stand in that gap between Just Do It and “Que sera sera,” and find that I don’t fully believe in either.
That makes me one of many - just another rat racer with a heavy datebook. Another dad who looks at his kids and wonders where the time went. Another traveler on the hard road to wisdom.
But I don’t mind. I’m told you can see contentment from there.
xxxx