Recently it became painfully obvious I have not been spending enough time with our youngest who is eleven.
It’s hard as a writer. And time is our most valuable commodity.
Yet, unlike money, time cannot be regained. I use money in the comparison because of the old American or capitalistic adage of “Time is money, and money is time,” the implication being that time and money hold equal value.
But they do not.
Where we spend our time there too dwells our heart.
For those who spend there time at occupations that bring them oodles of money, and at the expense of relationships with those they most love, there too lie their hearts. But those of who spend our hours crafting that, which may never earn one penny are not off the hook either.
I learned that this week.
Those we love stand just as important, and because of our work, that we do it out of the love we have for the craft, perhaps we should hold ourselves at a higher standard when it comes to priorities regarding family members and those we love.
To give yourself, your time and thoughts to something that in our culture brings no financial profit makes a pretty large political statement, whether that is our intention or not.
It says that humanity and individuals survive not simply by accumulation of money, although the acquisition of monies allows us to purchase sorely needed things and services such as food, homes, medical insurance, gas for our car, braces, immunizations, etc.
And yet with all our needs met, we still need to know that we matter, not because of what we do, how we look, the height of our intelligence, our slim and trim body, but instead because of who we are inside, those things that we cannot see, even dislike or hate about ourselves, but that others adore and would miss terribly if we suddenly we were no more.
Every human wants to know that if you or I don’t show up at the end of the day, someone is looking for us, worried about our well-being, wondering and concerned as to whether we are safe and all right.
Strangely enough, this is why we write.
While many stories depict the loss or desire of some-thing, the best exhibit a protagonist whose desire lies attached to another person if not directly to that person.
The greatest stories and the ones that touch us the most speak to the human desire for connection, belonging, the hope and yearning for acceptance and love given and received unconditionally, for simply being alive.
This is why romance consistently remains the highest selling genre of writing, and in my opinion will never go out of style.
We all wan to be loved. Even if it never happens quite like we imagine. The hope never truly dies.
For this reason we write.
And for this reason time spent with my youngest will always stand more important that anything I can write.
For it is time spent with those I love and who love me for simply being alive, not what I write or even that write, that matters more than anything.