Common Sensibilities Redux - Literary stuff of the day
Excerpted from The Writer's Almanac:
It's the birthday of the poet Alfred Tennyson, (books by this author) born in Lincolnshire, England (1809).... Tennyson moved with his wife, Emily, to the Isle of Wight to a big, secluded house called Farringford. Emily loved that their clocks were not even synchronized with those of the rest of the world. Alfred took walks on the great chalk cliffs overlooking the sea, composing his poems to the rhythm of his own footsteps.
This struck me this morning, because I was thinking of time--specifically, the passing of it, and how we (me) might preceive time if there were no clocks or calendars or constant reminders of time marching on. If we (me) weren't tied to schedules of up at 6:30, to work at 7:20, work til 4:30, five days of that, then the weekend, start over, now it's Christmas, now it's New Year, etc. What if time were just a big hunk of opportunity...that flowed, instead of raced, that melted and merged, instead of leaping ahead in fits and starts? If I were truly mentally disciplined, perhaps I could think of time like that--think of life like that! But instead, with my watch strapped to my person, my calendar wide-open ahead of me, and a to-do list nicely organized in my pocket, time remains the framework that my day is hung on.