To kick off the new year, I offer something a little different today: my love letter to time.

Dear Time,

If I could hold you in my hands I would do so gently. I would caress the curves in which you weave time and space and story and lives.  I would trace my finger over each curve, thankful you have been gentle with me and my story.

I would touch the jagged edges that lie at your forefront, pulling and seeking and reaching forward into the morrow; striving to pull me onward. I would watch as you sink each sharp edge as a hook into future space and then pull forward your mass, with me hanging on your back, oblivious to what you give, to what you do.

If I could hold you in my hands I would lift you to my face and feel your essence brush over me. I would inhale slowly, giving remembrance to the warmth you have given. I would take in the scent of the stillness – the fragrance that stands in its own space, the fragrance that cannot be defined, the fragrance that in its stillness, filled me beyond words. There was time for all life. You, Time, were not feared and were not pushed. Nor did you push or prod. We existed in stillness and in wholeness. If I could hold you in my hands I would remember and give thanks for you.

If I could hold you in my hands I would. I would treasure you and caress you. I would press my fingers over your smooth silky finish. I would feel you like freshly painted fingernails before they become chipped or scratched. When touch glides across in ease. I would touch you and smile. I would tell you that you have been good to me, and that I am sorrowful for the days that I pushed at you, screamed at you, and was angry with you for not moving fast enough, far enough, or slow enough. In patience you have stayed with me, loving me, nodding to me and beckoning me to come and sit in the moment of today. You have been good to me.

If I could hold you in my hands, I would be content to do just that. To breathe you in, touch your silkiness, and smile knowing that you are enough. Perfect time. Perfect timing. Rooted and grounded in now.