Time, and life, have a way of slipping silently by like the gentle stream in a mountain meadow. Even with a National Holiday just yesterday, I had to think for a moment what day of the week it is. It's a side effect of two things.
First, my hunny usually has an unusual schedule. Three days on, three days off, can put a "weekend" right in the middle of a calendar week. Let me just say that has its benefits, too. Second, I'm no longer part of the American Rat Race. I don't adhere to the rigorous scheduling of life that is part of Corporate America. My days are my own. Such as they are.
My sense of time, that nagging ticking of the clock that propels us through this existence, has changed. At almost every powwow I've attended has arisen the phrase, "Indian Time". What this means, at least at a powwow, is that Grand Entry is "scheduled" for noon, but usually happens some time between noon:10 and noon:45. Ish. In other words, it happens when it happens. It is acknowledged that we don't have that much control. More importantly, it's accepted. I get up in the morning and say, "I want to have X, Y and Z accomplished by 2pm. It doesn't always happen. In fact, it rarely happens. I have too many "things" on my plate and set unrealistic expectations of myself. Then, being a good American, I kick myself for not "doing".
Life is not a goal to be reached, but a journey to be experienced. And appreciated.
