Give me the time.

Strange morning. I am awake, the kitchen clock reads 7, the computer clock reads 6. What time is it? Did my husband think it was daylight savings time already and set the kitchen clock in the wrong direction? Is my computer about to crash and giving me little signals like not getting the time correct and duplicating all of my files in strange, ghostly ways? Should I just go by sounds I hear from the baby monitor? A moan here, a sneeze there...if baby is waking it should be around 7. Definitely. No wait, we have been traveling, and baby's schedule will be messed up.

Panic now. Nothing to tell me the time. HELP!

Hold on. Why do I need to know the time? This blissful timelessness is something we don't let our selves experience. What is next on the schedule? Wait, I will check my calender. What should we do for the holidays? When is that vacation we have planned again? 2009?
We are always looking ahead. Not at NOW. And NOW waits for us, patient and quiet, hoping we will take a passing glance before burying our heads in our PDAs or day planners.

Is this not what we say when we are asked what is the one thing we want? I would like more hours in the day? Here I am, blessed with a timeless Sunday morning, and my first instinct is to panic.

I don't have anywhere to go. I could have another cup of coffee. Or start that book. Laundry? Watch the sky slowly come to light?

My cell phone. The time on my cell phone will definitely be right.