I often look at my fingernails after a particularly rough bit of labor, when they are chipped and packed with dirt, and I wonder just how long it will take for them to grow back after I wash and cut them. Then, before I am really conscious of too much time having gone by, I look back down and find they are once again long enough to retain soil and to serve as nice little scratchers for scratching at my various skins and scalp. And so it goes with children, and lawns, and growing and teeming things – they grow so slowly and inconspicuously that one barely notices that things have changed before, all of a sudden, they are bigger than their clothes or are in need a good, thorough mowing. I am tempted at such times as I see my nails have grown to get down on myself for not being more productive or smarter with how I spend my time, until I realize that if time is flying it means that I am doing things that I love to do, and so, instead, I smile to myself and bend to the task at hand.
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