We spend our lives as objects in motion - accelerating endlessly, acquiring things and experiences and therefore mass, increasing our speed day after day, year after year, hurtling towards 'next,' whatever that may be. And at a certain point in our lives the awareness of that reality hits us - holy shit.
Stop.
No.
Slow down.
But we know from the most fundamental teaching of physics that an object in motion will stay in motion. And so we hurtle. Each stage of life a new momentary distraction from the unstoppable force that is our journey through time. Something to take our mind off of the terrifying reality of aging and the relativity with which we perceive the time left in our own lives. College. Grad School. Jobs. Marriage. Another job. New house. New Friends. Vacation. 'can't believe it's already 2017!'
..... '18!
…'19!
..'20!
.2021!
…
… But then …
You.
Theo.
If time is truly relative, perceived uniquely by each of us depending on the speed at which we are moving and the mass of the objects in our personal atmosphere then you, Theo, are the most massive object to ever come into my life. You didn't just draw me off course, you derailed entirely my linear experience of time. Reality expanded infinitely in every direction. After 30 years I could only see my own life going in an increasingly narrow set of possible directions, but you? Yours could go anywhere. Every time I stared down at you asleep on my chest I marveled at the explosion of possibilities that was your life. And I saw myself reflected through you in each and every iteration, and then infinitely in the possible generations to come.
Do we not live forever through our children?
And yet. For the first time in my 30 years here the central reference point from which I perceived the passage of time shifted. Each day was compared not to my previous 30 years - 1 out of 11,245 - but to yours - 1 out of 1. 1 of 2. 1 of 3. The relativity was staggering. Time collapsed into the singularity that was you. It seemed at first that we would spend eternity changing meconium diapers, feeding you every two to three hours, stressing about you eating enough every two to three hours, or laying in your forest gym repeatedly winding up and listening to 'You are My Sunshine.'
But time is cunning. And we found ourselves wishing for the days to come. A month later, an eternity in baby days, you were one month old… then suddenly, seemingly twice as fast, two.
… three
..six
.ten
One year
And somewhere in that journey time reclaimed me. And now I look up and you’re talking. And walking. And I want so badly to close my eyes and see you as a 5 month old, constantly worried that you won't roll on time. But my time consciousness struggles to work in reverse and now my view of you walking clumsily towards the kitchen spirals into images of you walking away from me to kindergarten, driving away to a friend's house, moving away to college. And here I am once more. Right where I started - holy shit.
Stop.
No.
Slow down.
But time does not. So I must.
Stop.
Breathe. Notice. Enjoy.
It’s all we can really do.
