Mon horloge française

Time should be lived, not killed. It should enhance, encourage; not dictate, not constrain.

With every glance at the clock, I am urged to linger there as in reverie. Time is a gift. As such, it assumes its rightful place in my life as kairos, qualitative and permanent in nature –  signifying a proper or opportune time for action – rather than chronos – quantitative,  chronological, or sequential time. Kairos informs me of the weather of the day – the tone or the feel of the day. Chronos merely calibrates the transpiration of that day – second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour.

So much the better that my clock is a delightfully winsome vintage French clock of reddish pink, or pinkish red, hung upon my bedroom wall, greeting me each new day with the assurance of interest, fascination, infatuation, obsession, rain or shine, sleet or snow, balanced in harmony with all with which and with whom I share my time.

Good or not so good, all will be as I accept it to be, as it is mine to bear, as it is mine to enjoy.