Time is easily lost and hard to find

This photo was probably taken by my brother Wayne Young circa 1977

 

“Time is easily lost and hard to find”
Lao Tzu

Tonight I held an old photograph in my hands and stared into the face of a much younger man that I recognize as me. Or is it me? And if it is me am I the same as I once was? I had hair, which I have long sense lost, and I was thin as a rail, which would not describe me now. And I wonder about the eyes and mouth that seem to capture a sense of hope and anticipation of the future. And what of the future, which I suppose is now?

What narrative can I spell out tonight to reconcile the past with the present? Is this the path that I always wanted to walk? Have I ended up where I thought I was going? Or did I just stumble along like playing a game of chess in a mirror against a player that new all my moves and would let me win from time to time just to keep me interested.

How much of this time spent covering 35 years did I recognize that my life was unwinding from a spool of precious thread that would one day play out and drift through the air to the ground? This end game of life against the greatest of players is a tricky one for sure. The field is slippery and you have to master your faculties to keep up the pace against the onslaught of your own slow demise. How long can your hold it off? The fountain of youth has long since dried up and filled with debris of my own making against the inevitable power of physics and physiology.

And what of the vaunted wisdom I think I have gained by racking up the hours, days, months and years being self-perceived as a thoughtful person? And what of that young man staring at me from the past, is he still with you? What would he say to me now? Good job?

I can see where this is trending in tone and substance. Indeed the inevitable drift to sadness and doubt has been the familiar curse from the time I was a conscious human being. Is this the same for everyone or just some more than others and those few not at all?

Many years ago I was in an antique store mostly filled with bits and pieces of this and that nothing special and given away or sold for next to nothing. Hanging on the west wall of a metal building about the size and shape of my outstretched hand was a shellacked slice of rich amber colored red cedar. And on the front was a piece of paper, glued down first, before the shellac was applied, with these words in a font of hand written text “if you don’t have time to do it right when will you have the time to do it over?” I have recited this many times, and sitting here now clacking away on my key board I am beginning to realize that it has a special meaning to me now. Staring down the field of the endgame I have abruptly realized that if I don’t take the time to do it right now I won’t have the time to do it over. There is no later. This is it.