Here's the problem: I have too much time.
Sounds daft, we all have the same amount,
but I mean unstructured time. And even
the structured time is heavy:
It's a mammoth task getting me up,
and putting me down (sounds Dickensian)
I'm left with three between-minder gaps
with nothing at all going on.
“Easy!” you say, “befriend time.”
Would you welcome even the dearest friend
who took to visiting three times a day,
every single day of the year?
And befriending time means structuring time;
that takes initiative, a skill
stolen by the M.S. long, long ago.
So I have gobbets, undigested
chunks of never-changing time,
like bland food that needs spicing up.
My spices in the past were playing
the piano, reading Proust and stitching
my tapestry. Also long gone.
Three gobbets a day are unbearable,
even two consecutively are hard.
At the risk of being boring,
I will emphasise again
I have TOO MUCH TIME.
Phew! glad to get that off my chest,
but writing the words gave me insights.
Ages ago, I smugly wrote:
“the trick is to consent” and I'd have
believed I'd consented once and for all.
But now I know I have to renew
my consent gobbet after gobbet.
When other activities are filched,
there is always prayer; like a nun
I can spend time in contemplation.
Praying takes me on an alchemical journey,
where I'm endeavouring to transform
the gross matter of my damaged body
into the gold of spirit.