Time is a strange thing. When I’m writing—really writing—I forget it exists. Hours pass in what feels like moments, and I resurface blinking, surprised the sun has moved. But at 3 a.m., cradling a squirmy puppy and begging her to please go back to sleep? Every minute drips like honey from a spoon. Thick. Slow. Unrelenting.
I’ve been thinking about how time doesn’t move the same for the heart as it does for the clock. When I’m in flow, time speeds up. When I’m in waiting, it slows to a crawl. And somehow, both feel precious.
Maybe time’s not meant to be measured in hours and minutes but in presence. In how deeply we’re living the moment we’re in—whether it’s a burst of creative energy or a quiet, tired vigil with a tiny creature learning the rhythm of the world.
Either way, I’m here. Pondering onward.
—Christine
The Pondering Place 
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