Chapter 114: Ooey, gooey cheesy time

I traveled to Chicago recently. I walked down familiar streets, surprised to see both how much and how little had changed since I lived there. As tends to be the case when I keep my mind alert and open to the ‘messages of the universe,’ as a Balinese shaman once told me to do, I noticed a common thread during my journey. That thread was time- both as a moment and a phase.

While walking to brunch on the first day of the trip, I overheard a young man talking to his friends at the bus stop, “Time is the most precious investment,” was the only part of the conversation I heard.

I stopped in my tracks, wrote that down, and continued on my walk. Time, an investment?

I spend a significant amount of mental energy thinking about the power of mindfulness, or the beauty of living in the present moment, but I rarely think about time as anything longer than this. I can’t. To me, time must be a moment. One moment, right now, and nothing more.

I used to think of time as ongoing, something yet to come. But living with cancer, chronic illness, or any reminder of your mortality makes this view of time seem naïve. Time is not promised. Time is now.

 What are my goals ten years from now? To be alive and happy, I suppose.

This awareness of impermanence is a blessing and a curse, so to speak. A blessing in its power to help me live for today but a curse in its ability to remind me of the vagueness inherent in its very definition.

Anyways, here I was, in my former neighborhood of Chicago,  where I spent four years dedicated solely to the study of medicine. A former time in which I was blissfully unaware of what the future would bring me, a time when life stretched out endlessly in front of me filled with the promise of all that I thought was guaranteed.

I immediately thought about how much time I invested in my education, my resume, my career. I wondered if I would have chosen a wiser investment had I known the rate of return. But, alas, I did not, and I could not. I am proud of my achievement and I enjoy my career.

But, had I realized then that time was an investment, would I have invested it differently?

If I had invested my time in my relationships, my self-care, my spirituality, my physical health, my hobbies, would my return have been greater? I will never know.

I walked on, hand in hand with my husband Brock, to the Art Institute, a place I’ve returned to again and again. In that moment of time, I felt proud of my investment. Proud of my investment in my marriage, my venture to travel, my stock in the pursuit of artistic education.

Entering the museum, we started in the basement, where my very favorite artistic collection is on permanent display: The Miniature Thorne Rooms. These rooms, perfect tiny replicas of rooms from the past- libraries in Victorian England, sitting rooms in early American colonies, and traditional dining rooms from around the world- are breathtaking. The rooms hold small, perfect replicas of historic furniture, tiny food, tiny utensils, even the occasional tiny dog by the tiny fireside. What they do not include are humans.

Looking behind the glass into these mini rooms, I felt transported through time. As I fantasized myself in an early 18th century drawing room, I also found myself looking into a time much more recently, a time when I was a 22-year-old medical student peering into the very same glass.

Back then, my definition of time was a phase, an interval. A period not to be invested, but to be used to make future investments more rewarding.

 Now, time is a moment. A moment to be savored and invested immediately. A moment that doesn’t need a high rate of return, because the return is instant. The return is the appreciation for the investment itself, not of what the investment might bring later on.

After the mini room exhibit, we went upstairs to see the temporary Salvador Dalí exhibit. To be honest, my knowledge of Dalí was rather limited but I was intrigued by his surrealist perspective. His art seemed moody- a bit cranky and never quite rested enough- and I felt that relatable.

What struck me most at this exhibit were the fun facts adorning the walls next to each painting. If you’ve seen a Dalí, you’ve likely seen the melting, abstract clocks he paints. The fun facts on the wall told me that Dalí described a clock as “the camembert of time.”

I can’t possibly do justice to the nuances Dalí meant by that statement, but I can say that I loved it immediately.

First, it involves cheese.

Second, it showed me the theme of time was indeed the theme of the day.

Third, it described time in the way I see it now: something that must be enjoyed instantly (cheese) before it melts away (impermanence).

Time, it seemed, was somewhat like a book hitting me on the head that day in Chicago. If that reference is lost on you, I recommend investing your time reading this blog from chapter one (kidding, a little).

I looked at Dalí clocks. I walked the halls of the art institute I had seen in times past. I held the hand of my love, a man who chooses our relationship over the illusion of forever each and every day.

Time can be a precious investment, yet it’s also a melty, ooey, gooey piece of camembert- slipping away, off of our plates, without our awareness.

I say to time: melt away, because the highest return on my investment comes from the awareness that I cannot stop the melting, but I can choose how much I enjoy the snack.

Fondly,
Courtney

©️ CB2023

PS- From a brain cancer perspective, things are all good! I’ve been fortunate enough to speak at many events recently (investing my time to raise awareness for the brain cancer community) and this blog has been neglected. Yet, every time I write in it, I feel rejuvenated.

Thank you to all of my readers, new and from the beginning. You inspire me. Special thanks to those who recently participated and/or donated to the MN Brain Tumor 5K. So much love!