So the old ladies at the supermarket—they look at your kids and
they tell you how time flies. You nod because of course you've heard this
before. And you try to savor every moment.
But ten years pass, and those old ladies in the supermarket seem
apocalyptic: WHY did they tell you time flies without telling you how to catch
it and hang on? Time isn't an escaped bird flying crazily around the house
until it finds the door and gets away; it's water. You had no hope of hanging on
to it with your hands in the first place.
That's what they meant, of course. And they can tell you what they
wish they'd done differently. But they don't know if it would have made a
difference.
Don't focus too much on life's worries, or you'll miss them—they'll
be grown. But those worries? They're the pot that, if you can get it woven
tightly enough, fast enough, will catch the water that is time.
But sometimes the pot unravels. Sometimes it takes too long to
weave.
We do the best we can, and sometimes the best we can do is to
dance in the rain while it falls, knowing that all we can save are the drops
that soak us through.
