January 18? Martin Luther King Day? How did the first few weeks of 2016 slither away so swiftly?
Time is playing childish games with me. Imagine a fully extended telescope; then collapse it in one deft contraction—this moment relaxing on the couch in Christmas morning with my brother and our charmingly mischievous puppy seems so close to now, so close to 363 days ago when we sailed away from San Francisco, so far from our hikes in New Zealand that logic and our blog archives indicate just happened five weeks ago. Car rides are interminable. A few hours spent with friends woosh by like shooting stars. I want, in perfect simultaneity, to return to the tropics, to spend infinite time at home having dinner with my family, and to spend every weekend road tripping with friends.
I'm ready for Dumbledore to appear and bestow upon me a time-turning piece of jewelry. I'd accept a flux capacitor enhanced DeLorean instead, or a perhaps a free-standing closet that could alter the time-space continuum would do. I'm open.
Some days ago, I was doing my best to help Dominic's brother, Dimitri, organize the Dolci warehouse—a museum of antique woodworking tools, their modern equivalents, and a few unfinished projects—and started to get that itchy feeling I get when my mind is cartwheeling and I'm feeling the need to share my thoughts (what does this gadget do? how can we make this go faster? is cleaning this dust putting me at risk for hantavirus? does the ticking of the kitchen clock serve to continuously remind you of your own mortality, too? did I really sail across the Pacific this year? that's wild! what should we have for lunch?) with my companion.
This itchy, need-to-share, feeling I'm describing seems to not be an affliction for the Dolci men, but the way. My experience hanging with Dominic and Dimitri for the last few weeks has been easy and relaxing, but they do seem to be in on a continuous silent contest that neither tells me about.
So at the warehouse, I did a ton of clutter busting and general tidying, and I tried to talk myself into playing it silent and cool as long as I could—dig the sweet jazz tunes Dimitri was streaming, live in the moment, put all the paints in the newly ordained liquids-and-solvents bin, marvel at the crafting possibilities at our disposal. I lasted for some 45 minutes (maybe) before looking at Dimitri and blurting out everyone's favorite conversation starter, "what are you thinking about?"
I must have seemed somewhat exasperated because Dimitri put up his hands, took half a step back, shook his head, said, "I'm thinking about absolutely nothing." And then, with little more than a chuckle and raised eyebrow to acknowledge his apparent zen with the universe, he got back to work.
So here's a resolution—to mine own inner-little-brother be true: covet silence, think less, cuddle puppies more (and try try to avoid letting your balls get stepped on, when possible ; ).