The worst part of my leave ending is that with it ends a curious relationship I’d developed with time.
What time is it? I often wondered over the past 10 weeks. (My five-month-old gave no response to these queries.)
What day is it? I even managed to wonder a few times.
My relationship to time—once so anxious, seized with the will to be “productive”—has relaxed. I went on long, aimless walks. I dawdled in stores. I played a lot of guitar. I laid on the floor with my son and listened to entire discographies.
The 9-5 workday isn’t really on the same wavelength, obviously.
Time is no longer mine.
I’ve exchanged my time—eight hours a day—for a paycheck. (I’ve exchanged more than my time, of course—but that’s a topic for another time.)
Time is commoditized once more, and I’m wondering how to maintain that slower, less harried sense already, as I dig out from under a pile of emails.
Taylor Coe 