I missed my ferry twice.
Well, I missed my 11:40 ferry by 10 minutes. (I couldn’t find my shoes.) The next ferry wasn’t for two hours because it’s Thursday not Saturday and apparently the 12:40 ferry doesn’t run on weekdays.
I spent my time waiting at an amazing waffle restaurant, Chicken and Waffles make email so much more enjoyable. I returned to the terminal, paid my fare and got in line by 1:30 for the 1:40 boat. (If you ride the a ferry frequently this is where you'll likely start laughing at me.)
Whew.
Except! They cut off the line two cars in front of me! No one said I wouldn’t make this boat. The boat wasn’t even full! A heavy truck maybe? So I waiting again. It was only an hour for the next one, but I was so, so, so late. All because of my shoes. Okay, it might not have been just the shoes, but they was the thing that took the most extra time.
There is a thing called “Time Blindness.” It’s often a symptom of ADHD and basically means that my brain does not accurately quantify the passing of time or correctly estimate how long it will take to do something. Time is an abstract concept. And while that is true, we live in a world where time dictates everything and being late holds a heavy stigma. My family have, for the most part, come to accept this about me. Though I recently found out they often adjust the times of our plans to accommodate my expected lateness. It’s rare that I’m late more than 5-10 minutes, like the ferry for example. I’ve been really intentional about not being late for school pick up, I’m too afraid of the wrath of a grumpy 6 year old. But for me, time management is like a game of Tetris except the pieces keep changing shape and sometimes they are round. My schedule for the day can be game over before 9 am. Once I learned Time Blindness was a thing, and I wasn’t just inept, I utilize timers and alarms to help keep me on track. “Hey Siri, set a timer for….” I’m maybe 40% better.
Keeping track of time is a modern human construct. Nature and creatures mark the passing of time with the changing of the seasons and the movement of the sun and moon, but it’s an entirely fluid concept. Before everyone had a clock on their wall, their wrist, or in their pocket, morning was when the sun rose above the horizon, night was when it was dark, and the daylight hours were guided by the innate routines of our circadian rhythm and punctuated by breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
When you aren’t beholden to a timepiece, time moves both slowly and quickly. The longest-shortest time, or shortest-longest time. (They say that about the days with a newborn too.) To move at the pace of creation. Millennia in a moment.
We get to rejoin the fluidity of time when we are in nature. It’s part of what makes nature holy. God’s time. Kairos.
Ironically, I was heading to a church gathering at a camp on Vashon Island. Do you think “I run on God’s time," is a reasonable apology? I made it on the 2:40 ferry, for the 15 minutes ride I watched snow flakes fly over Puget Sound. God’s time.
This Sunday, February 16, we will relish moments of God’s time among the trees at Squaxin Park. Meet at picnic shelter #2 at 4 pm.
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