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| The White Rabbit by Sir John Tenniel |
There is a section of the brain - or of my brain, I should say - that seems to enjoy grabbing and holding on fiercely to beliefs that are just not true. This is about one of them.
For years, decades, I have been telling myself that there were not enough hours in a day for all that a day was required to hold. I believed it; I had proof. I cannot call it an epiphany, the instant of electrifying awareness that things are other than assumed. Instead, it felt more like waking up; not knowing in one moment, then knowing with certainty in the next. Nothing jarring or gasp-producing. Rather, "Oh, yes. It could be like that." I began to believe there is time for what matters.
In other posts I've written about my fluid and somewhat non-ordinary relationship with time. I have written about a sense, an imperative, of proceeding through my life slowly. That was not always the case. Health concerns changed my pace and I realized this is my authentic state. All the hurry has leaked out of me.
What I have begun to do, and I hesitated to write of a process so new, is believe differently. I do not tell myself, I do not think the words, "There isn't enough time." As I find the 15 or so minutes each day to write and roughly illustrate a small journal page, I suspect the time was never missing. But by believing there was not enough, there wasn't.
This may be very old news to all of you. I know we are capable of limiting ourselves with false beliefs, but had not imagined it was something a person could just stop doing. I was wrong about time and have begun to examine other notions that may be equally defeating. If this account seems short or incomplete, it is because I expect there will be other posts, detailing other misapprehensions. Time is just the first Junior Mint I pulled out of the box, the big, theater-size box.
