This isn’t time for the miraculous, for life to shift from some tectonic fracture
into greatness. This isn’t the tunnel to shimmy into transformation, no baptismal wash
to hasten glory. This is four o’clock in the afternoon, heating leftover
rice, putting the water on for tea, the sky on mute, the kids next door practicing lay-ups.
The daisies are still holding steady from three days ago, though the slightest wilt
encroaches their tips, a slow turn only they could know the feeling of. Something
is always changing but we beat back the tide every day, the army at full tilt.
So it’s easy to misread this pocket of minutes, imagine them replete with journeying,
a deep, electric, forward motion. Rest easy. This is not a call for re-invention,
All time asks for is attention.