I begin to wonder if all fear is really a fear of time passing, the way time slithers away, out of control . . . from “Knitted” by Brenda Miller.

I don’t wear a watch. I love watches – the feel of them on my wrist, the designs, the mechanics hidden in so small a chamber. But I don’t wear one. I don’t want to leash myself to time that way.

Year ago, I decided that what causes my stomach to knot and my neck to grow stiff is an unhealthy awareness of time. I sit and watch the minutes tick by, wondering why I can’t get more done in these minutes. How could I have been at this computer for two hours and still not have posted this blog? How is it possible that 47 minutes have passed and I’ve written only 302 words? How can it already be July 13 – I haven’t even finished a draft of the book, and Stephen King says I should be able to do it in three months; it’s been over 6? I am driven by time.

Maybe some element of this is good. I’m almost never late for a deadline, for example. But mostly, it creates a massive among of tension in me. . . minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years are slipping by me, and I’m not getting enough done, enough written. Beside Still Watersphoto © 2011 Ian Sane | more info (via: Wylio)

Enough. Really, enough of that. The space inside me where the words live, that place is timeless and vast. I picture it as a forest with lush grass growing and streams meandering through the trees. It’s a place where I can walk and wander without clocks or deadlines, where the idea of “linear” is foreign, where a day can pass in a minute or in a year. The place runs on God’s time which is, of course, without time.

So I’m going to leave the watch off my wrist, and I just took the clock off my computer. I need to help myself climb into that timeless place where words linger and wander among the trees.