A Theory of Relativity
I’d love to say ‘I’ve been busy.’
No one would fault me for it. Since my last post, I’ve become a mother twice over - a journey that has consumed most of my intellectual, and emotional, capacities for the better part of three years. Time spent at a coffee shop, two hands on the mug, staring wistfully into the ether, might now be spent playing peekaboo, pureeing kale, or contemplating Montessori versus Waldorf methodology (note that I said might be spent - I don’t actually think about this). I assumed writing would just come back to me in time, when there wasn’t ‘so much else to do.’
But what else, really? Sure, I’m a parent, but so is my husband. We’re fortunate enough to have full-time help for our kids. I work part-time here and there, have a couple standing tennis lessons, and some seasonal committees I lend my name to. Our social schedule is lively, but manageable. Weeks have a pretty strong habit of resembling each other. One might wonder where the time goes?
In New York, I never wondered. My days started at sunrise. Spin class, shower, glam, then a 9-6 job that, even when slow, was never idle. Then happy hour. Or errands. Or outfit changes. Running from apartment to restaurant. From restaurant to bar. From bar to bar. To bar. 12AM was a responsible bedtime. It often came and went. New York minutes were devoured, not counted.
There were other things in there, too. There was the music. Playing shows. Attending shows. Songwriting sessions. Recordings. Date nights with my keyboard in an apartment that swallowed acoustics dead. Running marathons (six in five years). Volunteering at the monthly food pantry down my block. Those pious football Sundays. And then there was writing. Myspace. Blogspot. Billie is a Guy’s Name. New York Heroine. That tricky, elusive, always percolating debut novel (sorry, mom. It’s coming. I swear).
And yet here in the shadow of a small, tall city and the quiet of a dusty basin, I seem to have lost track of time.
Are you familiar with Parkinson’s Law? I wasn’t, until I picked up a book called Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals by Oliver Burkeman. As Burkeman relates, Parkinson’s Law is the idea that “work will expand to the time allotted.” One could call that a fancy way to describe procrastination, but it as much about filling time as it is about leaving it empty. My hubris in moving to West Texas was believing that I would have more time for the things I love. I didn’t consider that I would fail to make time for those things if I had more time itself.
Perhaps this is the fallacy of ‘small town living’- that somehow life becomes smaller, easier to navigate - “time moves slower here,” isn’t that what they say? But the truth is we all move at the same speed. Our problems all feel equally big (even if they’re not). Our place in the world equally significant (even if no one is looking). Life can feel as monumental in a small town as it can feel infinitesimal in a big city. It’s all relative.
My intention with Tall Cities was always to write about spaces around me and the people who occupy them. Turns out, even the smallest tall cities are easy places to get lost.
It’s good to finally be back.
