Reflections: Tied to Time

"You may suppose me, for the sake of argument, sitting at lunch in one of those quick-lunch restaurants in the City where men take their food so fast that it has none of the quality of food, and take their half hour's vacation so fast that it has none of the qualities of leisure; to hurry through one's leisure is the most unbusinesslike of actions. They all wore tall shiny hats as if they could not lose an instant even to hang them on a peg, and they all had one eye a little off, hypnotized by the huge eye of the clock. In short, they were the slaves of the modern bondage, you could hear their fetters clanking. Each was, in fact, bound by a chain; the heaviest chain ever tied to a man - it is called a watch chain"
          -G. K. Chesterton, "A Somewhat Improbable Story"

(To be worked on till it's better)

It rules my life, this timeless thing,
It sits above, mutely saying
When I should work, when I am done,
As numbered lists, they come and come.

It shows a different face; to you
It's white or grey or green or blue.
Here mine glows red, clear-cut, defined,
Or there, on screen, black shapes mime time.

The marks that sit upon its face,
They change until I am released;
I watch, and watch, and glance, and check,
"How much is left?" "Am I done yet?"

All that you do, do for Him
Who made all things, including time.



    The weeks flash by; it's Friday already? But yesterday was Monday or the day before that...the weeks disappear, and the months quickly follow.
    It's the minutes that crawl haltingly by as I'm working, sometimes stopping altogether when I'm doing nothing - though they run too quickly to catch sight of when I'm home.
    The boundaries times creates are hard, and only broken with consequences; in bed at 9:30, break time of 15 minutes, half-hour lunches, 8 hours of work. The clock relentlessly ticks forward, or changes its numbers with strict and precise regularity. 24 hours (or 12), 60 minutes, 60 seconds.
    Why am I so bound by time? yet before this life (of work and homework) I was bound by deadlines, as immovable (most times) as the hands of clock ticking off work hours.
    I, immortal spirit, prone to laziness, self-glorification, contemplation of beauty, curiosity, and activity, am bound by arbitrary markings men created to measure a concept of God's. I do not rebel against, understand (hardly at all), only marvel at it. What would we be if not bound by man's markings of time? Much lazier (at least in my case), but I wonder if I would see more, if I was not so focused on whatever this clearly cut-out block of time is appointed to?

I edited the poem, and this is what I worked on:

It rules my life, a timeless device,

It sits overhead, commands mutely precise—

Now I should work, now I clock in,

Dictating deadlines, forms to begin.

Its faces so diverse; to you

It's white or grey, green or blue.

Here mine glows red, clear shapes, defined,

Or there, on screen, black forms mime time.

The marks that sit upon its face,

They change until I am released;

I watch, and watch, and glance, and check,

"How much is left?" "Am I done yet?"

I walk outside, breath a sigh,

All time’s authority withers and dies

Till tomorrow, I am free—

But no, time rules; doubly

Precious are the minutes now

Till time again tolls toil’s tedious hour.

Outpouring of a Perfectionist

      I feel it as a thread, a band, a strong ribbon similar to an ace bandage, winding itself around and around and around my heart and spirit and mind. I'm accustomed to it, so it is not uncomfortable accept in the muscles overlaying my shoulder blades, which tighten a bit more than I like; but most often I'm too involved in life to notice.

    It's called "tension," a gift and a curse. It is energy, this tension, fueling adrenaline through the body, forcing laziness and sleepiness far away. The winding contains the spirit against falling, keeps it upright. As a perfectionist the tension gives the energy for this constant, non-stop evaluation, not of myself against others (pride does that often enough, anyway, far too often), but of what I have done against what I could do. I am my own worst critic, for I do not critic how well it is done, but what it could have been, and that measurement is too often harsh. Tension fuels it, the band increasing in tension around the heart whenever I find the evaluation scoring too low. 

    There are things that crack it and things that shatter it, two opposite things. Criticism and failure can shatter the tension, when it has been wound too tight, causing a breakdown (often tears of frustration, curled up on the floor of my room). But what cracks it, loosens the bonds, is praise.

   I felt it yesterday, working at the counter for customer service, wound too tight (I had made several mistakes earlier that day, when I was covering Lorien's shift up front; most often I am behind the counter, not the cash register, and my memory had failed a few times, worse, during the busy times, for I had been rushed and had caused a backup of customer's with my mistakes...now I was behind the counter for my shift, and doing better, but the tension still lingered, enhanced by the rushed schedule of the entire day, for my paper was due that night, the paper worth 60 percent of my grade). A lady came up, and thanked me for being so cheerful, for smiling, for taking extra effort. I looked down and thanked her, but inside I felt the bands crack, loosening their hold. When I am told I have done well unexpectedly, when I'm given extra praise from someone I don't expect, the tension weakens, unwinds a bit, and there is release, for the tension gives energy but constrains happiness and enjoyment of life.

    A task done, too, releases tension, but it unwinds completely, and I just want to cry for the energy and support are gone. My paper was finished at 11:37 last night (I was up till midnight the night before, as well); my entire life this past week has thrown off my sleeping schedule, for this paper haunted every hour, and the closer it got to the due date (with so little done) the more the tension increased. Now it's done and, while outwardly calm (except when alone, where God grants me the ability to cry), a debate is attacking each side within me. 

    I will be doing this once a month; two weeks of (relative only) ease, one week where it's harder, taking on extra work to try to make the fourth week easier, and the fourth week where I wind the tension so tight, where I make this band so hard and stiff and regimented, to refuse any attempts at escape (other than breaks to "watch" [often just listening to] Rurouni Kenshin or Numb3rs or Thumbelina or Tangled or High School Musical [one]...yes, I have random taste in movies :). I've talked with a friend about how tightly I'm wound, and she told me honestly that she's surprised I haven't had a nervous breakdown yet. I watch for that, attempting to take steps to release tension (I'll probably go play with legos this afternoon, or superglue the wings back onto my dragon, building and repairing are lovely releases), attempting to be healthy, but I can't help but wonder: what am I doing? Should I be going through something that takes so much once a month (one week in four is a pretty big time chunk, especially when the others are only relatively easy). But then, I've only done this 4th week twice; surely it will get better with practice? But niggling in the back of my mind is the thought that usually if I am thinking about quitting, it's past time to quit. I wondered if I should go home sick; I walk into the office and my boss tells me to go home (kindly and compassionately) before I get three words out; I think I should perhaps go to bed and a chorus from my friends rings out of relief and agreement; they knew it long ago. But I'm not seriously thinking about quitting; I'm only wondering if I should. And I'm splitting hairs in the process of doing so, most likely because I'm thinking about it while I'm exhausted. I need to start praying for direction--for while I could do this (and do it well, pleasing to a perfect God and a perfectionist person [two very different things], and in a healthy manner) with God's help, I cannot do it at all without Him, and I need to know what He wishes me to do.

   One more thought on perfectionism, to end this very long post. I watched clips of The Last Samurai for my paper, and heard this: "I continue to live among this unusual people. I am their captive and [...] Everyone is polite. Everyone smiles and bows, but beneath their courtesy I detect a deep reservoir of feeling. They are an intriguing people. From the moment they wake, they devote themselves to the perfection of whatever they pursue. [A man polishes a sword, a boy shoots a bow with care, patience, and deep intent attention.] I have never seen such discipline. I am surprised to learn that the word Samaria means 'to serve'" Their perfectionism had no tension, only passion, for they did not limit the time they spent to it. It was a lifelong devotion, not a task; it was something to love as well as something to seek perfection in. Their pursuit is patient as well as determined. Just something to think about--and to contrast to my own pursuit, where I would love to have perfection now, and I do not love the journey there.

The Purpose of a Plane

Sometimes I think life is like a plane flying.

            Tell me, what is a plane primarily made for? For flying, of course! Every plane is made for flying , for leaving the pavement, defying gravity, and soaring about the ground. Some are made for speed, some to carry people, some to transport large items, some for the sheer joy of traveling through the air—but all are made to fly.

But have you ever felt a plane take off? The energy it takes to get of the ground, going faster and faster and faster, the engine growing louder and louder, until finally the front wheels leave the ground, then the back wheels, and it’s going up, and farther up, till it is flying. There’s a brief moment when gravity releases its hold, and the passengers’ stomachs drop—and then gravity takes hold again, and the plane strains to go ever higher against its pull.

When a plane is doing what it is made for the engine is running hard, the metal body strains against the ever-insistent pull of gravity, and the wings tilt and shake to rise above every buffet of wind. Doing what it’s made for, fulfilling its purpose, takes all the skill and strength the plane was created with.

Sometimes I think life is like a plane flying.

Off the Beaten Path

    I looked down the road in the warm August day (unusual in Iowa), and walked. They pavement was a uniform darker grey, with random cracks creating small boxes or wandering lines; some were filled with black. I walked down the road and felt the pavement beneath my feet, dry, dust along the lines. I looked at the restrictions, those carefully molded concrete walls, chips cracking the even line along the top, called "curbs." I thought about what they symbolized, a border meant to keep me safe, to keep me on the road.
    What would happen if I stepped over them? The decision is hard; the action is not. Up a slight step and I am in the dying grass. I walk on the other side of the border, wondering why others don't join me; but of course I know. The freedom of the grass carries with it broken branches, their small stubs jabbing into my heels, plants that grow thorns, spikier than ever now that August is here and they're dead, and holes where I twist my ankles. I don't blame you for preferring the road. But I love the grass.
     But I don't stray very far; I stay within a few feet of the road (the restriction means nothing to me now). I wonder why--why don't I go farther away, leave the road altogether? Perhaps I don't have the strength, the wisdom (or common sense), to go that far out, to leave the road so far behind I can deal with mountains, fences, boulders and waterfalls. I only have the common sense to stay within a few feet of the road so when I fall I can go back to safety--for a while.
    Sometimes I like to think it is the people, the ones still on the road, that keep me there; I want to be within talking distance of them, within reach of their journey. I want to help them up on the grass when they want to come, and walk with them for a while when they leave it. Sometimes I even walk across the road to the other side. But even then I'm not one of the ones on the road, for they keep their eyes on the end of the road, or their feet--I'm looking at the other side and going sideways.
    Sideways can be fun--or lonely--but isn't it interesting that God made people who like to go off the beaten path?
    (then again, this could all be in my head as self-magnification)