...Time has escaped since my last posting, mostly without my noticing and, although the flowers are now well-planted, my teapot has remained idle far too long. Hours lost, though some better spent here and there reflecting on life over a cup of my favorite brew, and some spent writing or painting or other tasks equally important, but spent they are, yet some without a trace.
Life, measured by tasks, the sheer volume which surpasses all time allowed, while time’s value measured by things left yet undone rather than bounteous rows in the garden or stacks of good books read or pages of music played.
Rather I prefer time, measured by the summation of all my days at life’s end instead of tasks uncompleted, and life spent one teacup at a time.
