Galax-seed

Chris hooked our stereo up just in time for the debate last night, so we enjoyed the experience in stereo sound, me in my binder and Chris at his fly-tying desk.

Stella and Zoey stayed up, ostensibly to listen, but really to play school in their new little nook in the living room.

Democracy, (okay, my constant squawking at the radio,) kept them up far too late: I could hardly wake them this morning. By the time I picked them up from school, they were pretty much cooked.

We had an early evening of fresh Montana grocery store sushi -  a desperate act on my part that we feigned to enjoy as we choked it down - and then it was too early for bed and too late for anything else. Which is how I found myself sitting on the rug with Zoey, mesmerized as she created a spiraling 'galax-seed' out of a broken set of Mardi Gras beads.

Wednesdays are a day that I spend a lot of time sitting with Zoey, doing things like putting together puzzles and playing memory card games as we wait for Stella during her longish gymnastics lesson. Sometimes it feels as if we're passing time, an expression I loathe only slightly less than the actual activity. On my good days, I totally enjoy just being with Zoey, noticing her, following her lead. She spends a lot of time orbiting around Stella, and it's a treat to see her for just her, unaffected momentarily by her sister's gravitational pull.

Tonight on the rug, as we explored the galaxy, counted the string of golden stars, built and rebuilt an intergalactic sea, my mind drifted to the notion of time. I've been talking about time with Walter, the mindfulness and meditation advisor at my work. We're exploring the idea that time is not so objective - it speeds up and slows down, a lot based on whether we're really present in the moment or not. The more we try and multitask or are distracted by our internal dialogues and to-do lists, the faster time goes. I've been learning that the more I slow down, the more time I feel like I have, which doesn't make sense on the surface. It's so counterintuitive. As I tried to explain my pleasant experience of time slowing down to Walter, I drew on the easiest comparison: those horrible moments when someone's falling or getting hurt right in front of you, and it happens in slow motion. 'Yes - that's it!' he exclaimed, and then explained that though the content might be different, the context is exactly the same: that slow-motion feeling happens when you're fully present.

For many people, myself included until oh-so-recently, that fully present, slow-motion time thing happens almost exclusively in those dark moments, but there's a whole other galaxy of possibility out there.