Now that I am old, truly old, 96 years old, I have the gift of time, unending time. I go to bed when I please, get up when I please, eat when I please and do exactly what I want to do at each particular moment.
Once I never had enough time. Once I was always short of time. Now time seems continuous and unending, a powerful stream on which I float and meander.
No more obedience to lists, plans and agendas, the nearly impossible task of raising children, of studying for and taking tests, of trying to be at the right place at the right time, of hoping to please myself while pleasing others. My children are grown, my jobs are done, my books are published, my needs are few and each advancing day brings more sweet and unlimited moments.
If I find myself staring at clouds, watching a clutch of birds in the maple near my window or taking a nap, I don’t worry about what I might have done instead. I am old, truly old and out of the running.
Nothing seems more beautiful or precious to me than time. I am glad to have had so many years to fight for those things I admire, desired and believed in.
But the time for work and jobs that must be done has passed. Now I can give time itself my full and adoring attention.
For 30 years, Carol Miller, an anthropologist, studied a Romany (Gypsy) tribe, initially in Seattle and subsequently in California. She wrote a memoir of her experiences, "Lola's Luck: My Life Among the California Gypsies."
Read more of the Dec. 27, 2023–Jan. 2, 2024 issue.