The following question was posted on Facebook earlier this month: "Why is it that the majority of this year seemed to fly by, but now that I want it to last for a long time it is flying by?"
There was a haunting quality to this which caught and held my attention, realizing my friend is coping with her final moments with a very close relative. My desire was to respond, to let her know someone was listening and cared about the situation, without invading the veil of her privacy in a public forum.
"I think you'd have to pose that one to Einstein," I wrote (as I briefly contemplated theories of time travel), "Every minute is precious, but when we begin counting them they become finite."
Yet her question and my 25-words-or-less response are still resurfacing from my subconscious daily, demanding more of my attention. So ... I'm listening again. I've concluded that it's the numbered minutes ticking away (within my own life experience), that I'm not aware of which presently concern me the most. Those capsules of measured time leading to a final second when something unforeseen occurs, leaving no time left to say what should have been said all along, over and over, including: I love you, you are important in my life, and ... I'm listening to your heart.
Could hardly be said better!
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