To Never Having Enough Time

What would having enough time look like? Would it be sitting in my little armless chair, fresh book in hand, the dog sleeping in the corner, not because she is bored but because she has just come in from our long walk in the cold spring afternoon?

Having enough time would not look any different than not having enough time. Me in the chair with the book and the sleeping dog--that happens almost daily.

No, having enough time feels different. Me, sitting in my little armless chair, fresh book in hand, not thinking about what comes next, the papers that need grading or the conversation I need to have with my son about his plans for the future.

Having enough time means I would not have to chose. Having enough time means I’ve accurately judged how long each of these will take, along with making dinner and doing the bills, and fit them nicely into the square hours that are this afternoon and they fit together like puzzle pieces. Snap, snap, snap.

Time may be infinite, but my time is not. Not my mortality, just my day. Every day, I have to pick what gets done (the bills, the grading, a run) and what does not (painting the bathroom, dusting, that conversation with my son), the constant sorting and rearranging of the to-do’s. Always something leftover.

My To-Do List

But that’s why I get up the next day. This morning, I have to write this letter. I have a student who wanted to meet yesterday, but we agreed on today. I want to go to lunch with a friend. I will make chicken for dinner. So I get up, despite the fact I was dreaming about chocolate cake with caramel icing. Despite the fact I have a significant portion of this day that scares me. Despite the fact that there are people I want to see today but can’t because they live far away or have died. I get up.

I never want enough hours in the day. I always want at least one thing left undone. Even on the day I die, I want to say, “Please, I’m not finished, just 5 more minutes.”