Almost enough time to recalibrate. Almost enough time to remember who I am when I feel like I am enough. When the hours stop racing. When wet leaves become amber gems under foot and umbrellas become hideouts for kisses. Almost enough time, across the boarder and far up north, falling asleep on hotel pillows with French vowels in my mouth.
Almost enough to catch my breath, remember what it feels like to be carefree. Almost. Still. I wish it could have been longer. I wish there were days, back to back. A week, maybe. Time slowing to honey.
Instead, it was brief and golden, and then back to the pell-mell of too-full days.
It's that time of year, when I'm wishing for extra hours. When I'm feeling the way that as the days grow darker earlier, and the time veritably speeds up; the hours become more compressed and even more things call for my attention. * * * Do you feel that with the season's shift? The way the rush hits? The way there suddenly is so much to do before the year ends? It feels somehow unnatural doesn't it? This pace. It goes against every fiber and sinew of being, to rush as the world prepares for the stillness of a gathering winter.
On the cusp of a new month, I want to find a different syncopation; a truer tempo between stillness and motion. I'd also like to show up here daily, even just with photos, as evidence: of being enough. And of the moments. One after the next. Golden. Passing.