Measuring time.  Sometimes I think I have it down pat.  The roast is done perfectly when expected, I get to the doctor’s with that ten minutes to spare, or I have all my ducks rowed up in time to enjoy a solitary moment with the full moon rising.

But mostly, time and I are never quite in sync.  Either there’s not enough of it or it hangs around interminably daring me to use it wisely.  It always seems a gigantic treat when what I’m doing (which, of course, is wildly important!) gets completed “on time” or, better yet, “with time to spare.”

All of that, though, I have learned to consider faults of my own making.  Even a very long lifetime doesn’t bring perfection in timing — not if you have any sort of expectations for what you’d like to accomplish in the time allotted to you.  No.  The elasticity of time that is bothersome comes along unexpectedly (but regularly).

At this time of year, you might notice it in the late afternoon.  Dark already.  Deep dark.  But not time to think about the evening meal yet.  In fact, did I even bring in the garbage dumpster?  Are the bears out there already?  And how is it that I didn’t answer even one of my emails out of the seven that were waiting for me this morning?  Where did the time go?

But wait!  Dark as it is, the clock says it’s only four.  Really?  Then why does it feel like I should crawl under the covers and call it a day?  But that would be wasting time and we all know the adage, “Waste not, want not.”

Again, really?  If I do something spectacular with these next four or five hours of pitchy, icy blackness, will that earn me points so that our Oysterville Regatta will last longer than its usual “fly with the wind” speed next summer?

Somehow,  I doubt it.  Making each minute count for as much as every other minute is a skill I’ve not yet mastered.  I wonder if anyone has…