When you’re a blogger, you really notice how fast time flies. I used to post here once a day, and then once a week, and then twice a month. But the time between posting kept flying by so fast, so posting once a month felt the same as posting every day. I’d have that initial feeling upon posting of, ahhh, I’ve accomplished something here, and with the blink of an eye a month had passed, and it was time to post something again. Doesn’t it seem this way for everything, though? Friday’s here, and then before you know it, it’s Monday again, then Wednesday — almost there! — and finally, Friday again. Didn’t we just go to ballet class, like, yesterday? Karate time already?
They say time goes faster as you get older, and that it’s based on a ratio — something like your age to the time period. So the length of a day is minuscule to me at my ripe old age, but long to my six-year-old:
1 day : 30+ years vs. 1 day : 6 years
Makes sense. Either that, or time is, as my daughter would say, literally speeding up.
The same thing happens between my yoga practices. (Sidenote: I’m all excited this morning because it’s Saturday, and we don’t traditionally practise on Saturdays — and after a holiday week of practising alone on my mat in the cold hall here, my body is aching and I need the break; but, Sunday fast approacheth….) Six days a week, I go to the yoga shala, sweat it out on the mat like a crazed wannabe contortionist, and it’s done, and I’m relieved and proud of myself, and before you know it, it’s 6 a.m. again, and I’m giving my friend Sergio the thumbs up before rolling out my mat again. And again. It’s sooo Groundhog Day.
For 2014, I want to slow things down a bit. As a busy, Ashtangi, working mom, it’s really tempting to just get through the week, get to Saturday — when I can rest, read novels, eat take-out, Staaaarbucks, stay in bed a bit longer. I’m not sure exactly how to slow down all the in-between, but I know it’ll involve more savouring — moments, cuddles, steps taken from the car to the schoolyard, mouthfuls, breaths.
“Betty has a yellow tooth,” R says, as he wakes poor Betty White from her slumber. Grrrr… J rubs her toes along the frame of my computer screen, watching as I type. My dad’s here. Saturday morning Power Rangers is on. “Don’t put that in your mouth, R.”
Thanks to social media, we’re all bloggers now. Many of you used to look at me like I was nuts when you learned I was a “mom blogger” back in 2006. But you’re all blogging now. It’s a bit much to sit down and craft an entire blog post; many of us old-school bloggers realize that now with the advent of microblogging, so we post way less on our blogs and blend in with the masses on Twitter and Facebook, Instagram, texting, emailing. We’re all documenting our lives now and reading others’ documentations, but is this savouring — or is it impulse?
I’m not sure. At the same time, though, weren’t our parents documenting as much as they could in their own way? Whipping out the video cam whenever the chance came? We can’t even view all those old video tapes anymore.
Me in my Olive Oyl tee and pigtails hugging Minnie Mouse, waving, “Hi, Mama!”
It’s human nature to tell stories. We’ve been doing it since the daaaawn of tiiiime. The stories, and the way they’re told, are what most define civilizations. Technology (aka Apple) has tapped into that innate human drive and exposed it, exploited it, monetized it. And it’s awesome! But, like resisting that Starbucks grande-soy-no-water-tazo-chai (see how it rolls off the tongue?), we/I/Josh-O have to exercise conscious control around it.
That’s also why I don’t blog here so much. I practically live on the Internet, Twitter, Facebook all day as Writer/Editor/”Social Media Queen” at Today’s Parent. It’s my job. Storytelling, editing stories, tweeting, Facebooking stories. I need to unplug at the end of the day.
Still, as postmodern literature so expertly shows us, it’s always about the storytelling. But, we need story, too. Life can’t all just be about the telling.
There are two blue jays outside. We’re wondering how they’re surviving in the 20-below weather… “Mama! This snow looks like ice cream.”
Six days a week (not including Saturday’s, New Moon and Full Moon days — according to the tradition), I practise Ashtanga yoga. That’s 1.5 hours of being, barefoot on a mat: no stories; no storytelling. I do this every morning like clockwork. Among other things, it preps me to be more present and aware throughout the day, to be here now, seeing through my own eyes, not those of prospective readers.
Maybe you get the same rewards jogging, meditating, drawing, playing hockey, reading poetry, birdwatching. It’s important, I think.
Don’t get me wrong, I love the storytelling. Am obsessed. But compulsive storytelling is so 2008! We need to be conscious storytellers, and above all, to live the story, too — savour the little moments… and be together without story.
Though I’m happy it’s Saturday, my Sunday practice and back-to-work Monday loom on the horizon. But my daughter wants to sit with me — just be with me — and I’m going to savour it now.
Happy, healthy, savour-y 2014!