So yesterday on Facebook, I posted this conversation between Tad and me (before I post, I should explain to those of you who do not know. The Washington Park Concert series is my very favorite thing about summer. Tons of people I know and care about from my neighborhood to the kids' school to sometimes even others... gather on blankets to talk and hear live outdoor music. Tad, on the other hand, while he doesn't dislike this event...definitely finds it to be rather consuming of his social and psychic energy)
Tad (calling me on the phone at work, using a sympathetic and calming voice): I am just calling to tell you how sorry I am that your concert got cancelled because of the rain.
Me (using an equally sympathetic and calming voice): Oh, I'm glad you called because I was going to call you and tell you how sorry I am that the rain cleared up and the sun came out and the concert went on as usual.
So one of my friends asked if we were existing in the past and future at the same time. And I laughed at that comment and said that perhaps we were living in the present future participle.
And we did go to the concert, by the way.
The sun came out. And then set. Beautifully, behind the trees.
So this morning, I was driving to work and smiling at our fun night when No Surprises by Radiohead came on my mix cd. Suddenly I was transported to the Peace Corps, to the back of a bus in Estonia, using my green raincoat as a pillow, headphones on, drumming my fingers silently to the lovely synthesized lullaby sounding piano at the beginning of the song. I used to ride the bus to visit friends, most often a seven hour bus ride there and back on the weekends from my island of Saaremaa to Tartu or Tallinn where we most often gathered.
It struck me that, those long, music-filled rides on the bus and the ferry and the bus again took place twelve years ago. And I AM existing in the past and future at the same time. But the present too. But the present is hardest to live in sometimes, isn't it...
When you are a parent the days can be endless, hours and hours to fill until bedtime or nap time, a game of Candy land on the playroom floor can feel like a full day of work sometimes...but the months, the weeks, the years, those slip by so fast you can't believe it.
How is it that I'm not a kid anymore, playing Candy land with my mom?
How is it that I'm not twenty-four anymore, on a bus in Estonia, listening to my Walkman?
How is it that my first born child is nearly TEN years old, reading novels on his own?
How is it that we have been going to Washington Park concerts for more than three summers now?
That's the feeling I have today. It feels too fast. I want to go home and stare at my children before they grow anymore. I want to see my Peace Corps friends. I want a day of sitting on the porch with lemonade and coloring books and