The Mantle Clock

The Mantle Clock

In the quiet of the living room, I listen to the clock ticking on the mantle ledge—ticking off the time I can never get back.

And yet, I sit here still . . . still staring out the window at the stone-washed field and the aloe plant whose green tips glow in the sun.

My daughter sleeps, and I miss her warm comfort, even while I flinch at every creak, fearing the sound of my own breathing has wrenched her from dreams.

All of this – all of life – is such a dichotomy, a contradiction of things.

I seek solitude in crowds and yearn for company when I’m alone.

I yearn for the warmth of summer when the skies beget winter’s searing frost.

I long for the simple life even as I flip through pictures of those with fame.

I read books, wanting to write, and then I begin to write and crack open the spine, wanting to read.

Before children, before my child, I had time to be philosophical. To ponder the existential questions. The what ifs and whys. But now that time is lost in changing of diapers and wiping up of floors. In Time-Outs and Craft Time.

And though I cannot examine life like I once had, I hold it dearer, closer.

I listen for the ticking of the clock, wondering when she will wake up, wondering when I can hold her again . . . when I can sing to her while changing her diaper.

And even when the dichotomy continues, and I glance at the hourglass clock—watching in its reflected face the stone-washed field growing ink-splotched with night and the moon peering through the windows—hoping she will soon sleep, I sit on the glider with her warm comfort in my lap and rock her and sing.

And I hold her tight, I hold her close, knowing this is life, this is beauty; this ticking of the mantle clock is marking seconds I can never get back. Yet when she is in my arms, her sweet eyes closing in rest, in trust, I know that for a moment the moon stops and the earth is still, and time is transformed in this beautiful melding of now.

I wrote this as an exercise in allowing my thoughts to flow as fast as my fingers could type. Once I was finished, I read over it and realize that I had written a similar post, “The Beauty of Sometimes,” one year ago, almost to the day. Seems that mastering time–or at least understanding it–will always be one of the most perplexing and beautiful things I ponder.

Have you ever tried to write without thinking? If you’re struggling with writer’s block, it’s a great way to fall in love with the written word all over again. Think of it like speed dating for writers.

Enjoy and Happy New Year!