I overheard my wife speaking to her mother. “Life’s moving so fast right now,” she said. “If there’s something I want to do, I have to do it when I can.”
That means sewing blankets at 10 p.m. It means rushing into Valley Thrift 10 minutes before they close to buy bigger shoes for your daughter. It means eating Campbell’s soup straight out of the can (OK, I’m the only one who does that).
Life is moving fast. I think of it like a gently rising hill.
It’s so easy when we’re children. Our parents carry us when our feet are sore. As the days go by, we walk more. They carry us less. Before we know it, we’re climbing all alone, our paths diverged in a yellow wood.
The view gets prettier as we go. The air grows thinner, the challenges bigger. We have our own children to carry now, our own hard-won lessons to share. We hope they understand them by the time our paths diverge again.
One day, we will bend down to drink from the stream and hardly recognize the face reflected in the water. We will stand and see we’ve left the foothills. Mountains rise before us. The peaks are so far off they’re hidden by the clouds. We will cinch our belts up tight, and do the only thing we can: keep climbing.
Our feet won’t always do what we tell them. Our backs will bow, our knees won’t bend. But still we’ll climb. It’s why we were created — to keep going until we can’t.
Earlier this week, I watched a documentary on Tony Robbins (I Am Not Your Guru). “You’ll snap your fingers,” he says, “and 10 years will go by.”
That’s 10 years we cannot waste.
If we want to make art, we’ll find a way despite the petty little bothers. We’ll do it now, no matter where we are on the trail — because we’re wise enough to know the trail never gets easier. It only gets harder; the problems bigger.
Our bodies weaken, but our minds grow strong. We learn ways around the obstacles. We learn to purge our lives of things that do not matter. We learn to fill our days with what we love.
Life is moving fast.
We snap our fingers, and one day it will end.