Finding Time

Words & Photography
by Jeannie Naylor



Mothering is this strange land where time isn't fluid, but rather passes in surges and spasms. There are no free hours, merely fleeting minutes. Books are consumed a few pages at a time while waiting for the doctor or in a carpool lane. Photos are uploaded as the princess twirls, and editing waits for the elusive nap of another day. Scraps tucked into purses and pockets bear witness to thoughts that mattered enough to warrant pen and paper.

Scraps tucked into purses and pockets bear witness to thoughts that mattered enough to warrant pen and paper.

There are days when the loose ends seem dangerously close to unraveling, when I feel as though all I do is start and never finish. That's my signal to head for the kitchen.

There is an incredible peace that washes over me when my jeans are speckled with flour and my hands juggle measuring spoons. A recipe creased and tattered takes control and all I have to do is follow. Stir, whisk, gently fold. Time, tempo, temperature. Everything else waits. I scrub the bowls as the dough rises, wipe the counter as the seconds pass, and when the timer stills - I stop and marvel.

Here is tangible proof that I was here, that I created, that I used my minutes for more than just beginnings.

Here is tangible proof that I was here, that I created, that I used my minutes for more than just beginnings. And then without warning the clock surges forward, little feet pad down hardwood halls to steal away the baked and the baker. It is, after all, time for a tea party.