When we’re young, the years pass like turtles, inching toward the year we start school, dragging toward birthdays, graduations, and independence. The change is gradual, but eventually a time comes when days, weeks, years fly by so quickly they should be clocked for speeding.
At 65 I want to put reins on time, slow it down enough I don’t forget to savour moments before they become memories. Daily walks, usually with a camera slung around my neck, are one way I lasso time and keep it in check, even if it’s just for the space of the walk.
The camera reminds me to pay attention. I watch for season’s changes, like the first ducklings to appear or the re-emergence of the turtles. I notice the angles of the boardwalk through the marsh and the way willow leaves shine in the sun. I admire the assurance and curiosity of a toddler just learning to walk. I stop to scratch a dog and chat with its owner.
I don’t suppose time will ever move slowly for me again. Fewer years lie ahead of me than behind so the telescoping of time seems normal. But through the lens of my camera, I feel a connection with all that is and all that is to come. I am returned to wonder, and this gives me hope.