Time for school. Time for stickies at all times in the left pocket. Time to read as I have been reading all summer, only more. Time to put something between me and the deadlines in December so that I don’t feel the stress of them. Time for some serious work. I am probably one of the few people on the planet who hates coming down to the wire on anything: I feel stress if I don’t have things ready to wrap up in early November for December, I feel stress if I am working on something for Sunday past noon on Saturday, I feel stress if I sense I have had the bad judgment to over-commit on anything at all, with the possibility of looking a fool, presenting like a careless fathead, delivering shallowly, like an evangelical. I avoid that stress by stressing out early, while there is yet time.
I like that stress avoiding stress, however. It is a good way to move from one thing to the other in an unrushed but unrelenting process. Time to read this chapter, time to finish this book, time to make sure this next event is coming along, time to write the kernel of this paper, time to look back on a series of accomplishments and feel pleased. Time for something extra. And time keeps going, but not in a sinister or arbitrary way, instead it goes in a steady, persevering way. Time is then perceived as it is, as it goes, responsibility fitting to responsibility, event into time’s socket, sun, moon and stars ruling serenely as purposed, and as acknowledged.
Time for fall too. Time for more of the sun slanting through life, the late, the quiet hours and the early calm. Time for the cooler and for the cold, time for the frost and the thinking and preparation the cold brings. Time for having what is necessary, every bit. Time for the impending winter which requires, the way deadlines and time in general require, thinking about what it is to be in the place to which one is certain to come. Time for meeting what is necessary, time for death too, deliverance from time, from the moving image to the unmoving original. For now, time for responsibilities accumulating like a useful harvest, and a farewell to the summer, that fatuous season of waiting, that airport and bus terminal of time.