It’s called Playing with Time. Or maybe it’s just about playing with time.
And it would be astonishingly pretentious except for the fact that, you know, I wrote it.
Oh, and that it’s not actually a poem.
Well, it’s really just a fairly bizarre collection of somewhat incoherent scribbled notes that came into their confused existence while I was teaching a teleclass last week on the topic of “playing with time”.
Because when I look at my notes, I have no idea what I was thinking (or talking about), but it does sort of look like poetry. If you squint. Anyway …
A poem that is really just a fairly bizarre collection of somewhat
incoherent scribbled notes that came into their confused
existence while —
replenish and re-fill
filling up with:
the power of falling apart
time lost to the yuckiness, the overwhelming, the hurt
but then —
scheduling in time for all of it
for the freakouts and for the coming-down
for rollerskating and ritual and finger painting with pudding
scheduling a temper tantrum
scheduling time to make inappropriate noises
scheduling time to ask: what needs to happen now?
scheduling time to ask: what does this need?
because boundaries give spaciousness
because quality restorative time is a valid component of work
and I can block out time to go and daydream by the river
even if there is no river
because freedom, creativity, simplicity
taking time and talking to time and talking about time is investing in my work
it’s dancing between the drops
I want a beautiful timer
to remind me about the river