The Speed of Time

There’s been so much happening this week that I didn’t even realize tomorrow is Friday.

Wasn’t it just Tuesday?

Next thing I know, summer will be over. The sun will dip behind the trees a little earlier each night. The evenings will turn crisp. And soon enough, we’ll be brushing snow from our coats and wondering where the warm days went.

I’ve only gone camping once this year. Once. And I’d like to go again before the snow flies and the long stillness of winter sets in.

Time is strange like that.

When you’re young, it drags. You want to grow up so badly to reach that next milestone. You want to finally be old enough to drive, to graduate, to move out.

It feels like everything worth having is just out of reach, waiting on some distant shore.

Then you get there.

In college and those early years afterward, time starts to pick up. It begins to move at a steady jog instead of a crawl. You’re chasing things: jobs, rent, friendships, maybe love. You’re figuring things out. Some days still feel long, but the years start to feel shorter.

And then you hit 30.

At least, I did. And from that point on, it’s like time strapped on a pair of rocket boosters.

Now I’m 41. Almost 42. And I can’t help but wonder what is the speed of time going to feel like when I’m 60?

Or 70?

Or…God help me…90?

Will it keep accelerating until months feel like days and years like a blink?

I don’t know. But what I do know is this: moments are all we really get.

Little flashes. Fireflies in a jar. A dog curled up beside you. The crunch of gravel underfoot on a summer walk. The way the air smells before a storm. A cup of coffee in the early morning sun. A smile from a stranger.

That’s all life is, in the end. A string of fleeting, fragile moments.

So I’m trying, really trying, to enjoy them. To notice them. To breathe them in before they vanish.

Because time doesn’t stop. But I can.

Even if just for a moment.