Cultivating the Art of Being Prufrock

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works of days and hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot, 1917

Hmmm, shall I heed the advice of T.S. and slow the pace of my life to a comfortable stroll? And if I do, will there be time for the works of my days and hands?

Society moves forward with such relentless and unforgiving single-mindedness in these fractured times. The mantra of our era seems to be: If you're not moving ahead every waking moment, you are doomed to fall hopelessly behind.

But I wonder. Is falling behind so bad after all? Perhaps the lost art of lingering is in fact a gift of grace. One that we have kicked aside and trampled as we dodge and weave in the midst of the daily stampede.

I'm inclined to stop and pick up that discarded gift. Dust it off, smooth out the edges and place it back on the pedestal it was meant to rest upon.

Consciously and deliberately slow my steps as I set foot upon the trail. Catch the fragrance of the pines as it quivers in the breeze. Take time to watch the ambling flutter of the Pink-edged Sulphur as it gently prances the way only butterflies can.

Stroll toward the grove of flowering trees and listen for the buzz-buzz of the honey bee as it goes about its business quite oblivious of me. Stop to watch the splash-of-sunlight Yellow Warbler as it flits from branch to branch.

Meander up the gentle slope and allow myself to be distracted by the stitch-stitch-stitch flight of a Darner Dragonfly. Sit down in the middle of the path. Watch it zigzagging here and there and not move until it has a mind to perch and rest.

Amble on into Cool Hollow. Stake out a position to watch for the Canada Warbler, with its golden breast and jaunty necklace, that seems disposed to drop by here now and then. And while in waiting for this favourite visitor, listen to the gurgling warble of the House Wren that never tires of singing.

In time, make my way around the bend pausing to admire the swallows cavorting overhead. Wander down to the beach. Sit on a piece of driftwood and listen to the waves as they tip toe and retreat, tip toe and retreat, over pebbles in the sand.

And then, when the mood strikes, wander down to the marsh and simply take it in. Kingfishers diving for minnows. Great Blue Herons stalking the shallows. Gaudy wood ducks drifting lazily amongst the lily pads. The metallic green elegance of an American Emerald flashing in the sunlight.

If I could find the patience to take an entire day for these simple pleasures all within a few hundred yards, perhaps then falling behind would seem a foolish thing to fear.

Metaphors, I've learned, are seldom in a hurry. So I will cultivate the art of being Prufrock. Slowing down and matching myself to natural rhythms. Perhaps then, there will be time, there will be time… to spin some metaphors of my own.

~ Michael Robert Dyet is the author of "Until the Deep Water Stills – An Internet-enhanced Novel" – double winner in the Reader Views Literary Awards 2009. Visit Michael's website at www.mdyetmetaphor.com or the novel online companion at www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog. Visit www.smashwords.com to download a free preview of the e-book version.

~ Subscribe to "Michael's Metaphors of Life Journal aka Things That Make Me Go Hmmm" at its' internet home www.mdyetmetaphor.com/blog2. Instructions for subscribing are provided in the "Subscribe to this Blog: How To" instructions page in the right sidebar. If you're reading this post on another social networking site, come back regularly to my page for postings once a week.

~ Send comments or questions to michael@mdyetmetaphor.com.