The Fiction of Clocks

On Thursday morning, I stood on the train station platform in the small town of Eschenbach, Switzerland, the snow-capped mountains looking down and some signs of awakening Spring in the air.

On Friday morning, I walked a greenway path in Raleigh, North Carolina serenaded by cardinals, robins and other songbirds. A falcon alighted on the branches of a white-blossomed pear tree.

On Saturday morning, I taught in a school gymnasium and then went out for some Southern fried chicken, okra and tomatoes, in my wife’s alma mater town of Chapel Hill. One step closer to Spring’s awakening signs, frat parties on front lawns and the lively energy of youth on the streets.

On Sunday morning, I rode on my bike in a light sprinkle, up the San Francisco hills to Twin Peaks and down to Golden Gate Park where the first cherry trees (a bit late) were beginning their riotous bloom. People were swing dancing outside.

On Monday morning (now), I awoke at 4 am wishing it was 7 am. But my body’s time was not the clock’s and there was no convincing it otherwise.

And it will get worse. On Tuesday morning, I’ll be sleeping on some airport seats in Korea awaiting my next flight to Malaysia. On Wednesday morning at 1 am, I will fall into some bed on a resort island and pray for needed sleep. On Thursday morning, I will teach for a day regardless of my body’s dis-alignment. Perhaps by Saturday, the outer and inner clocks will re-synchronize and life will resume its natural course. Or so I hope.

This is what dedication looks like. And insanity.