Stopping the Clock

Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.  William Faulkner                                                         

Whether you work from home or are retired, if you’re like me, you probably find days melt into each other without any break in your daily routine. When I still worked in an office environment, there was a clear divide with my Saturdays and Sundays sacrosanct set apart from the daily, humdrum tasks of the Monday through Friday week.

Time for a change: Will, my significant other, and I decide to take action. No more of this! Taking a pencil, we draw a large “X” through one day of every week for the next several months. This would be our special “take a break” day. No doctor’s appointments or grocery shopping or weed pulling would take precedence of our time out.

We float out ideas—a movie, special, long lunches at those places we never seem to find time to try, window shopping with no clear mission of buying anything unless we feel like it, long walks on the beach and even driving out for an ice cream cone—lots of good stuff that never seems to happen since as John Lennon said so well, “life happens while we’re busy making plans.”

Eliminating reminders of time: No more time to wait; we’re serious about this now. Ready, set, action. One of our ideas is to schedule a day without time—no knowledge of clocks, that is, as William Faulkner suggests. Get up when we wake up, eat when we’re hungry, and let the day unfold as it will. Then, we begin to think of what we’ll need to eliminate from our lives to make time stand still.

Let’s see: no TV, no computer. Mask the clocks, put the watches in a drawer. Okay, we’re all set. No, wait a minute. No cell phone, either. No house phone. It, too, gives us the time. Oops, don’t forget the microwave or the stove.

“Well,” Will reasons, “We can always drive down to the end of our island, walk on that part of the beach where we always find some sea glass. There’s no clocks there.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, “we’ll have to mask the clock in the car the night before.”

We realize that clocks are just about everywhere and very hard to escape. Still, we’re going to do it. Soon! We just need to find time to eliminate all signs of time. Fortunately, we’re feeling pretty confident we’ve identified all the possible spoilers of our plan.

We go out into the garden to ponder and think just when we should give this experiment a try. It’s a sunny May afternoon and we realize we still can’t escape a clock. There sits our sundial blabbing the time….

We giggle and realize what’s most important is not the presence of the clocks in our lives, but how we choose to live within our own time. As Golda Meir said so succinctly, “We must govern the clock, not be governed by it.”

Collections Happen

"One cannot collect all the beautiful shells on the beach. One can collect only a few, and they are more beautiful if they are few." Anne Morrow Lindbergh 

While my knowledge of Anne Morrow Lindbergh is mainly from her wonderful book, Gifts from the Sea, this quote suggests she's a minimalist. A wonderful "less is more" approach to life, but not the image of a true collector. I see many seashell collectors since I live at the beach. And none of them limit themselves to "collecting only a few." Their shell theme goes much further. Their houses are filled with pictures, dishes, towels, shower curtains, and furniture covers, inside and out, with a shell motif.

Collections happen. I came to this conclusion after some time of study. My education began innocently enough at our local library where a rectangular case with the sole purpose of displaying collections resides in the lobby. The collections are often unusual. Consider a sea of Smurfs. Remember those funny looking little blue…men, boys, elves, martians? Marionettes and Pez containers were two more exotic displays.

Why do we feel compelled to collect? And why do we choose the things we do? Or do our collectables choose us? Some anthropologists suggest our need to collect may be connected to an earlier point on our evolutionary journey. Susan Pearce, author of Interpreting Objects and Collections, says one in three North Americans collect something. Where are you on the spectrum? Before you say you're not the one in three, check your drawers and closets. Do you accumulate photos, ticket stubs, CDs?

After conducting further nonscientific research, I realized collectors are not born on the same motivational paths.

Consider the following groups:

The Indiana Jones: For this collector, it's all about the quest. Fellow blogger, Sandy, collects fine musical instruments and confesses, "For me, it's all about the conquest. I enjoy the ones I have, but my mind is already moving onto what I want next." On her search list: an antique banjo.

The Accidental Tourist: This is my category. I don't know how my collection of small bunnies began, but like real life rabbits they've multiplied rapidly. My two favorites sit on each side of my computer and I consider them my Muses since they always smile encouragement when I sit down and sweat in front of a blank screen.


The Reluctant Joiner: This is a person who never wanted to be an accumulator. Someone told me about a woman she met who had a bird house collection. "You must really love birds," my friend said to her. The woman looked at her. "Birds? Why would you think that?" It all began one Christmas when three people gave her the same gift. You guessed it — bird houses. Before she could return them, her birthday arrived, along with — right again — more bird houses.

The Sensualist: Stu, a member of my writers' group, collects fine porcelain Madonna figures. I saw his collection when it graced our library case. Stu is a discriminating connoisseur. He only adds to his collection when he sees an exceptional piece. His joy is in the loveliness of the art.

The Banker: My significant other, Will, began collecting commemorative quarters in 1999. He's sure they'll be worth more than a quarter each once the Treasury completes the series. The way the economy is going, I think he'll be lucky to break even. Still, it's nice to have something financial to think you can fall back on…

The Torch Carrier: The last display in the library case was a multitude of egg cups. One was labeled "Ginger." Aha, someone else to question. Ginger happens to be the library person with the challenge of setting up displays. "I began collecting egg cups because my mother collected them," she explained. So she just fell into her collection, so to speak. It's nice to know her mother's passion will live on. I wonder if one of Ginger's children will continue the tradition.

The Identity Seeker: The minute she saw the red satin pig with rhinestone eyes in Neiman Marcus, Nancy had to have it since it was time to do something nice for herself. Her Independence Pig became the first of many. Years later, when she was in a different emotional place, she was ready to move on. The defining moment, she says, was when a friend said, "Every time I see a pig, I think of you." Definitely time to find her menagerie another home.

The Memory Seekers: There's a little bit of this in all of us. Photos, ticket stubs, concert programs, but especially pictures evoke memories of our lives. My screensaver consists of a rolling picture show. California trips intermixed with Florida winters, cruises, family members at various ages, and even images I've used in blog postings. Walter Benjamin, a German writer and essayist, said it best: "Every passion borders on the chaotic, but the collector's passion borders on the chaos of memories."

The Knowledge seeker: I read once that everyone should be an expert on something. Do you have enough knowledge to speak to a particular topic? The Gettysburg battle? The life cycle of Barbie dolls? This is my wannabe collector status. All I have to do is find out what the one thing is that I'm more interested in than anything else… But maybe that's a blog for another day.

Seriously, if you haven't started collecting, think about doing so. It helps people know what to buy you for your birthday, gives you a reason to go to flea markets and yard sales, and hides the dust on your window sills. Join the ranks of the many!

Seashore Seasons of Life

The choices we make influence so much of our lives, choices like the places we choose to be and live. Living by the sea on an island was one of those choices that created so much of that influence for me. When I look back on my life, I can't help but compare it to the seasons of the seashore.


In the spring of my life, the seashore served as a backdrop for my yearnings, especially my dreams of romantic love. In that time, there were so many false starts - kisses without substance on a moonlit beach - made all the more lonely because the nights were so beautiful. Then the promises of the sea became mine. I met my soul mate and the promises whispered by the waves became a reality.

That was the spring of my life.


Summer came with a bright and blazing intensity - my childbearing years. Days replaced starlit nights in importance. And sunny days were filled with sand buckets, snacks, and suntan lotion to protect tender skin. Vigilance was the keyword during the summer season of my life as I watched the little ones skitter on the beach, much like little sandpipers. Later, bobbing in the surf. Then later, I played the watchful waiting game while they visited places with names like the Tide, the Ketch, the Shell - places with sea-like names, but completely alien from my beloved sea.

That was the summer of my life.


Now I'm in the autumn of my ocean watching. This season is calm, still warm kissed by the remembered intensity of the summer sun. Relaxed now, I watch my grands hurl themselves toward the incoming tide, calm because I know the children of my summer are in their summers - secure in their own lives and loves. I am tranquil and filled with peace in the fall season as I clasp the hand of my spring season lover, my companion in three seashore seasons.



I find I want to hold this season more than I have ever wanted to hold any other season in my life. This September song grows more poignant, more precious than any other, for the sun-warmed sea still holds a strong whisper of summer, and the remembrance of the everlasting promise of spring.

This is the autumn of my life.



I do not know what lies ahead of me as I push away the thought of the approaching winter of my life. I do know God has been good to me through these three seasons. Perhaps the best has been saved for last. I will find out if I get to spend my winter by the sea. In any case, I realize life has its cycle, and whatever comes, life will continue, and future generations will carry at least a small piece of me through their seashore seasons.