Now that I have retired, I wonder what to do with all this unrestricted time? At the moment, I’m sitting in my living room recliner, looking out over the marsh and sky. A treeline on the opposite shore runs like a narrow band of greener green than the marsh, all virtually unchanged over the years.
I will take the time one moment at a time, for starters. Isn’t that the point? Each moment is boundless, if given the creative thrust of vital energy. Even if unappreciated, the moment has its own life apart from the person who experiences it. I let the moments fly by unnoticed. I can’t attend individually to all, but they assert themselves in different contexts, as when I remember them.
How many moments have I spent in this recliner? It’s easier to conjecture in terms of waves or patterns of chair-sitting time, where multiple similar experiences superimpose themselves on each other. Like standing waves, together they create a symphony of like-toned moments, a certain quality of moment, thickened and intensified, deepened by repetition over time.
I can sit here and remember pasts of similar but not identical moments, times when I can see a blue heron, who is not there now, but forever in place in my memory.
Once experienced, it is forever accessible.
No birds flocking to the feeder this moment, but they live in memory and expectation, a moment’s edge from appearing before my physical eyes.
If I think of moments as waves rather than particles, they can exist everywhere at once, in all times right now, as alive, from my perspective, as they ever were.
Thus have I built quality time in this chair, hours upon hours of moments at all times of day and night, season, temperature, and even location in the living room. The other recliner has occupied similar locations. Together they remind me of blocks of time that contained experiences like Hoppy, the wild baby rabbit my cat brought in, eyes still unopened, weighing less than an ounce. I spent many moments feeding him goat’s milk from a dropper, or letting him sleep in the quilt on my lap. His eye got hurt as he hid in the other recliner, the gray one.
I think of Mama, who gave me the gray recliner, or Clements Furniture, where I bought this green one. I see the vistas outside the window and recall the changing weather patterns, the naps I’ve taken, blankets I’ve wrapped around feet, fans I’ve turned on, as now. Sun in my eyes, books at my side, journal and pen in lap and hand. All these memories consolidated in this moment, in the wave theory of time.
The hummingbirds. Phone conversations. Snacks. The time the pressure cooker blew up in my face and I could do little except sit around and recuperate, or when knees, ankles, or feet won’t let me do much other than sit.
A wave theory of time recognizes the nurturing effect of certain types of moments, such as the ones spent sitting in my chair.