Sand Monuments

My Pen Mates,

All anxieties and struggles are rooted in immediacy and getting results; in that respect, we are all slaves of time. From the turning of the seasons, to the intervals between haircuts, to finding a cure for diseases, time is the constant factor. We erect monuments to mark the passage of time, to designate a period of human existence when we managed it, all the while helpless over its control of our lives. The pharaohs sought eternity through massive structures to endure the ravages of time. The Stone Henge is not so much a time machine as a way to predict time's passage and mark its regularity. The compass, the sextant, the hourglass, the beating of the heart, the falling of the leaves__ it's as if everything either man-made or in nature is directed by the Creator to mark and count time's passage.

So what is the point in trying to observe, measure, mark, and manage it? There is no controlling or conserving it; there is no way to buy more of it or bend it. It's a zero sum entity and loss starts at the onset of its awareness. We all mismanage it. We are all guilty of wasting it. And we all struggle against its ravages. Yet human vanity celebrate attempts at conquering time. Despite the futility of mastering it, we somehow seem to demonstrate to one another that we are more impervious to it than our neighbor. From anti-wrinkling cream, to tucks; from better vision, to longevity, from faster cars to bigger tombstones, we seem hardwired to leave our mark on this earth by telling those we leave behind that our period of existence needed to be remembered and that we are worthy for what we have accomplished with the time we had. I believe we only end up succeeding at beating our chest despite being conquered.

Among those who we share this earth with, no other creature obsesses over time. The lions on the Serengeti only know to hunt when hungry, migratory birds fly south to avoid the cold, the snake molts to shed its outgrown skin, the tallest redwoods watch the eons planted firmly on one spot, the salmon swim upriver to perpetuate its species. Yet none of these are done in vanity; these are all survival processes, absent the intent to delay death or an active attempt to hide the affects of time. They live in the elements of the earth, pass away, and join those elements. It's exactly the same trajectory we define, but we like to imagine that we can extend the arc. It's sad because many times, we only wish to give that impression with other people, but the temporal truth is never altered. Your tombstone may last a year or a thousand years, but its days are numbered and after a while never remembered.

Mon