Borrowed Time

Of course time is running out. It always
has been a creek heading east, the freight
of water with its surprising heaviness
following the slant of the land, its destiny.

-Jim Harrison

4:30 a.m.  I am awake. I thought I heard a kid knocking at the door. Then I thought I heard them talking in their room.  Both figments of my sleepy stupor. I only hear the morning birds.  After half an hour, I took a bath. The hot, soothing water could maybe lure me back into dreamland. If not, it was some time to myself. The moments in the morning before the kids wake up is borrowed time.

After being on my feet for several full days last week, an uncommon occurrence for me, my back has been sore. I did several days of yoga but that seems to have exacerbated the problem.  I am reminded that as much as I enjoy and appreciate getting older, for the respect that it earns me in my insustry and for my experiences in life, my body will get older as well. Mind and body will not always be in sync.  This time with my body is borrowed time.
With a still-aching back, I debated yoga today.  Will it help or hurt at this point?  The 90-minute class would also distract from other things I need to work on.  That time to myself, to focus, balance, and meditate, is borrowed time.
I called Quentin my “little man” yesterday. He replied “Why did you call me that?  I don’t look like a man.”  At 4-years-old, I have noticed the developing sophistication of his speech. The time with my young kids is borrowed time.
My pregnancies with Nelle and Iris were borrowed time.  A fleeting passage of first five, then four months with them. Neither time did I truly expect that it would be so short or have an ending so abrupt.
Medication gives me borrowed time.  Time where I do not have to fully feel.
This spring and summer have been a holding pattern.  Grieving stretched into longer and brighter days, waiting.  Will I suffer loss again, or will I be spared?  I inch toward my due date in July, knowing I will have nothing to offset the sadness.  I fill the time with tasks, trying to bring order to my life, if only for a short while. I am knowingly operating on borrowed time.
My grieving is borrowed time.  I may always grieve my losses, but the shape of it will change.  Inconceivable now, but I may need to make space in my life to grieve others that I have loved.
The bell will eventually sound. A light, sweet tone – ding – and then the time is up.