Where I am in place and time

Between a door and a clock 


I stand between a clock and a door. Fittingly, I think.
The clock is the last of the many my father made. Solid cherry and a thing of beauty. I recognize that I have become a woman of a certain age and am surprisingly happy about this. My father attained his most valued personal achievements after fifty. So, the clock is hopeful. While it reads twenty past eleven, for all we know, this could be twenty past eleven in the morning! There is still time for me to live. And I have a strong sense that I get to choose whether it is morning or evening, whether my life is at its prime or its end.
And then there is the door, the painting I bought because I loved it. There it hangs, like an invitation. To open doors. To push on doors. To walk through and explore behind doors. To command doors to open. To bang on doors. I am here. To shout with Jacob, "I will not let you go until you bless me."
How fortunate I have been already in life, and yet, I dare to ask for more. I do not stand between a rock and a hard place, but between a clock and a door. Opportunities knocking, tick tocking.