The Sands of Time

May 28, 2009 By 51 Comments

The Sands of Time

The sands of TIME are always dropping.
Never slowing, never stopping.
TIME moves on, his beat unchanging.
Minutes for moments, always exchanging.

Father Time keeps everything steady.
He only cares about us, not if we’re ready.
TIME is his asset – the greatest we get.
We must discover this early and never forget.

June never knew this, at least that’s how she acted.
The character of days she routinely subtracted.
Whittling hours to minutes, then seconds to nil,
Life rolled from her grip like a boulder down hill.

June never quite got it – that TIME is a treasure,
And should only be used in appreciative measure.
June thought of her TIME as unending as water,
She lined up her minutes then led them to slaughter.

Father Time (as you know) is ancient and fair.
He is always alert and always aware.
He wants us to treasure his glorious gift,
By not living too slow, or silent or swift.

His advice is so simple. Sincerely, it’s smart:
Treat each day as your last, live it full with your heart.
But June didn’t do this. She was not even near.
June misspent her calendar, year after year.

She found herself sprinting and falling behind,
With too many things always clouding her mind.
The day of out tale June was running around.
If being early was sky, then June was the ground.

Though feeling behind and a bit overdue,
June was not feeling anything new.
June’s trademark trait, her own custom quirk,
was never quite getting her daylight to work.

So Time came out of nowhere as he’s known to do,
When his minutes get frittered to only a few.
He appeared on her lawn in an angry dark cloud.
He was walking real tall and talking real loud.

His beard was snow white, and ancient and long.
His arms looked like sticks, though quite obviously strong.
Each limb was unique; they did not share the same size,
Complimenting the chronographs ablaze in his eyes.

They were ticking round clocks with a big and small hand.
On his chest was an hour glass spilling its sand.
June’s house became flooded in a fine mist of smoke.
Time entered the room and like thunder he spoke.

“Stop where you are!” came his bellowed command.
“You’ve been mocking my first and my long second hand!
You’re treating my TIME as though merely a joke,”
The room then belched a bit with a ringlet of smoke.

“You let every one of your minutes bleed,
As if I served no other need,
Then helping your days fall off the calendar fast,
Ahead toward your future, away from your past!”

Father Time sighed and then dropped on the couch.
“I am not easily offended, or a grumpy old grouch,
But TIME is so soft. It is easy to bruise.
You must always be wary of how much you lose.

When it is gone, it will never return.
TIME sees no difference in what you earn,
Or how much money you keep in the bank.
June,” Father Time paused. “I have to be frank.”

“Every minute you use is one less than before,
And I am never permitted to offer you more.
It doesn’t matter one bit how much you might try
Or whine, or beg, or scream, or cry.

I hand it out once and then never again.
All TIME is a mixture of how and when.
How you spend it, and when you are through.
A minute’s a minute. You can’t split it in two.

You must understand that before it’s too late.
We all live the life we decide to create.”
“So, do the important, ignore the small.
There is not enough time to get to it all.

Make time for a sunrise, take a walk in the park.
Aim to go slower and bulls-eye your mark.
Television’s terrific, but books are great too.
Try singing or painting, or anything new.”

June looked at time. She stared that clock in his face,
Then said, “You’re right! I’ve been living all over the place.
I have to slow down. I understand that I do.
I can’t keep bounding about like a big kangaroo.

I’ll start to notice the small things in my days,
By doing new things and changing my ways.”
Then June got excited. Her voice jumped in pitch.
Something had shifted, inside her a switch.

“I will start to consider the things that I do.
It’s out with the old and in with the new.
I’ll go to bed early and wake up the same.
I’ll paint my picture of life in a whole different frame.

Instead of watching my seconds all circle the drain,
I’ll treat them like shelter in a torrent of rain.”
June was now jumping and pacing the ground,
Enlivened by something first lost and then found.

“I’ll play the piano and get exercise.”
Father Time had to smile at the gleam in her eyes.
“I’ll learn a new language, turn off my TV.
I’m a whole different person, Father, wait and you’ll see.”

“I don’t need to see,” he said, “I’m watching right now.”
Father Time kindly knelt, wiping sweat from her brow.
“This is a lesson that you understand.
Appreciate TIME and your life will expand.

You only get one chance. Make your life the best.
Don’t spend it all running and feeling so stressed.”
“Will I see you again?” June said as TIME started to fade.
“Not if you follow the pact that we made.

Live a life that’s momentous. You hold ME in your hand.
Treasure each moment like the last grain of sand.”

Writer Dad

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Gracias, Señora

July 18, 2008 By 4 Comments

 

Two years ago, when Daisy and I were first looking for a school for Mia, our main criteria was finding an environment where she wouldn’t be bored.  Fortunately, we found a fantastic public school in our city that had a Dual Immersion program where ninety percent of a Kindergartner’s day is taught in Spanish. 

Surely, that would keep her eyes open.

There aren’t a lot of schools like this, at least in our district.  There was quite the waiting list, and though we collectively wore the armor of optimism, Daisy and I were silently worried that our alternative education wasn’t going to happen.  

Fortune prevailed and Mia was accepted.  Her school year is over, and now we can reflect.  

The school year was so much more than we ever imagined.  Mia grew beyond our expectations, and learned a mass of lessons that we could not have taught her.  

Daisy and I each wrote letters to Mia’s primary teacher, as well as her principal.  In addition, I wrote this little verse for the two of them.  I thought I’d share.

Names have been changed to protect the innocent:

Dear Maestras,

I knew we were lucky, though I had no idea, what a year would be like with Señora Mochila.  As the curtains draw closed on my first year as a dad, with a child at Lincoln, I’m a little bit sad. My children grow older (it seems faster than me) and one day their changes will get harder to see, but the changes this year I can not even count, because they arrived every day in a countless amount.

We’ve watched our girl grow from inquisitive and ready, to just over six, now skillful and steady.  Before, she could not roll the “R” in burrito.  Now she orders in Spanish when we’re at El Torito.  We’ve lost nine pages from the calendar since her first day in dress.  May I have a moment Maestras, so that I may confess?

Daisy and I harbored no second choice.  It was Lincoln we desired to give our girl voice.  We waited and lingered with anticipation for a letter of acceptance to provide us elation.  We received our letter in the post, but the program was filled and a small part of my spirit was a little bit killed.  But it doesn’t come close to stinging my pride to tell you straight up, I actually cried.  

I called on the phone and asked, “What can I do?”  Sra. Reina said, “Be patient Señor; just see it through.”  So I listened to her, swallowed my tears, and allowed encouraging words to flood through my ears. 

Two weeks passed, then on Good Friday it was, we unfolded another letter and read with a buzz.

We stayed unerring, sound in our choice, and now we could finally begin to rejoice.  Not only for Mia, but for our Maxwell as well.  We were so happy, we started to yell.  A wonderful institution had become in our reach where our children would learn things that we could not teach.

The next four months fell like leaves in the Fall, taking Mia that first day we’ll always recall.  Señora was perfect.  She had command of the room, like a pregnant mamí has command of her womb.  We knew without doubt, as we knit hands with our boy, that our next nine months would be brimming with joy.

And they were, mis maestras, es todo verdad.  Nunca en su escuela es una facade.  Mia’s learned how to read and then how to write in a new tongue by doing assignments each night.  She’s learned how to sing with such beautiful grace, I can easily picture my gone grandmother’s face.  She knew how to learn, but now she digests, and she does it all with such flawless finesse.

Lincoln’s a school that’s surpassed expectation by providing a solid, substantial foundation, and that is the bedrock of great education – a group of teachers who offer such deep dedication.  Please believe me when I say: this is no aberration.  You have earned our family’s sincere admiration.  It would be a benefit to the whole of our nation, if such practice were applied to the next generation.

We wanted for our child to be challenged, not bored; a wish which was granted, instead of ignored.  Thank you kindly for all that you do.  Daisy and I are so grateful for you.  From nuestras corazones, quiseramos to say.  Gracias por todo hacen every day.

Writer Dad

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