Hear the rhythm

The ticking of the clock reminds me it is time to go to bed. I have to shower and snuggle under my quilt with a book. I then have to sleep and wake up at 6 to start another day. The ticking doesn’t stop however. It goes on and on – relentless and unforgiving. Time moves. It fills in me the anxiety to move as well. If I sit still, I feel guilty. Yet there are many moments when I am less than productive or I feel I have achieved nothing despite trying awfully hard. The ticking builds pressure. So much time is gone. You know not how much you have left. Do more. Be more. Fie on you if you stop.

I sit and type aimlessly and watch my words come together. Black on white. Tonight is a night where I feel calm despite the ticking that grows louder when all else is so silent. I have stopped measuring myself by the successes or failures that have been my life. I try and count only the moments where I believe I have made a difference. It could be to a family member or a complete stranger. It could be to a friend or someone who no longer is one. It could be to someone who calls up asking for help or advice or just a listening ear.

No one is indispensable. The ticking should teach us all that. So many moments since the beginning of time. Does anyone remember all those who were? Even if you were famous once, you will now be mostly forgotten. Time is inexorable. It is cyclic. What once was might be so again. There is no lasting significance to your so-called achievements, the money you make, the cars you drive, the boasts you manage to pepper your conversation with, the names you drop to be a celebrity by association. What is of some import is the imprint you leave on a heart. And you do that only through love. Not through force.

The clock ticks on as I type the thoughts that gather in my mind. I think back to my father who knew how to love with such heart that I will never forget him. The people he touched still talk of him, more than a dozen years after his passing. He was not a successful man or a rich one. The ticking of the clock did not urge him to make money. He tried instead to be a good man – a better man than most.

Time always moves on. What it leaves in its wake should be memories of a life that was lived with some passion, some joy, some sorrow and a whole lot of courage. It should not mark time for a relentless rat race. Too few realize that the ticking of the clock is not the beat to an endless march, it is the rhythm of the background score that runs through your life like a rich melody. I hear the rhythm when I am silent as I am now. Have you ever heard yours?