I hung up a new clock I bought the other day, and was super pleased with how great it looked against the fresh wall color in the bathroom I am almost done painting. Later, as I was getting ready to go out for a much needed GNO, I realized the time was way off.
“That’s odd,” I thought as I re-set the clock, “I must have made a mistake when I initially turned the hands.”
When I came home later that evening, I looked up and saw that the time was again back to where it had been earlier..3:35.
As I sat at the sink taking my make-up off, I kept glancing up at the clock as it ticked. I watched as the minute hand moved along right up to 3:40 and then suddenly dropped back to 3:30 with a clunk.
“AH HA!!” I yelped, “It wasn’t me after all” the minute hand on this clock is broken..so back to Walmart I will go today to return, maybe to replace, it.
I have to be honest, I’m not super happy about having another thing to add to my long to-do list. I’ve been so busy with this house..and I’m going to be heading back to Charlotte next week, so the pressure’s on to get it all done.
I thought about all the rooms I have painted here since my youngest daughter left for college and my older daughter moved to Tampa for a new job. It’s been exhausting.. but rewarding and liberating.
This is exactly why I keep painting and cleaning and clearing out and refreshing this place, I realized. This house was itself “stuck at 3:35” and it was depressing to be around all of the empty rooms that still looked like my kids would walk through the door at any moment. Our house had become a time capsule- a clock stuck at the moment my kids left home- a museum containing the artifacts of a season that has long since passed by.
Don’t get me wrong, I adore my kids..but they have moved on and so must I.
I need a clock
-and a home-
that accurately reflects the time.