The notion is romantic to me, and I have always been particularly susceptible to romantic notions. Not the candle-light, hand-holding kind, but the impressionistic watercolor kind. The barefoot kind. The tall reeds and endless sky kind. I want to be whimsy on legs that barely touch ground. I want to fit nicely within the mold labeled Free Spirit.
It's childish; I know this. I do not like responsibility; "You," I say to whomever dares to impose order, "are not the boss of me." Then I limp home with twigs in my hair, pretending to be royalty and ridiculously dressed.
But as I grow farther from childhood, I understand that time is good to me. It is spinach -- canned nemesis when I was six, nine, and eleven; now appreciated fresh sautee'd with pine nuts at thirty-four.
There is never enough; there is too much; there is exactly and precisely the correct amount. I shake my fist at you, Time, because you are always right, and it is infuriating.
An educator, I am saying goodbye to summer and its three months of delicious aimlessness. I will set my alarm on Monday, and my body will reaccustom to jarring Awake-Right-Now-ness. The hours of wander are waning, and I mourn.
But I understand -- teeth clenched, allow me to remind -- that it is a worthwhile transition. When I pull the twigs out of my hair and let go of childish notions of who I want to be, I have come to understand what I am. I do better with structure, with increments of hours partitioned between to-do lists. I feel safer; I create more; I beat myself up less; and the kitchen is always cleaner. With too much time on my hands, I sink into stupors and waste.
Time, as all wise grandmothers, understands the need for boundaries. Cry as forlorn summer-loving children might, she remains steadfast, unconditional to provide exactly for our needs when all we do is want want want.
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