One analogy I thought of today was of pruning a tree. I can imagine all the connections I have with others as branches on a tree. The strongest, most solid ties - those that most certainly will last a lifetime, likely because of family bonds - are directly connected to the trunk. They are solid and support myriad other branches. And then the tree reaches out from there. New branches spring up all the time, with little green buds of hope, full of promise yet also tenuous and unestablished on the tree. I imagine that when my network of friends and acquaintances is large, the tree looks full, almost laden down with limbs carrying twigs and leaves and fruit.

But trees need pruning, as do relationships. It might not feel good to trim away some of that tree, but it is needed - the dead wood, or suckers that are taking away life from the tree, overgrowth. It is the same with people in my life, whether I'm conscious of it or not. I'm realizing as I age, like a tree, that I need to be attentive to not giving energy to those things that are actually meant to be pruned. Sometimes I do it myself, and realize when a connection is toxic in my life, and sometimes it's as if an unwanted arborist has marched onto my property and slashed off a particularly lovely branch that I thought created just the right balance in my structure. It's often not until much later that I realize that branch was only meant to be there for a season and not a lifetime.

When people pass in and out of my life quickly, especially when they have made a rapid and strong impression, I always ask myself: What was the reason for that connection? What has that person or situation taught me - about myself, about how I interact with others, about my needs in relationships, or about the world around me? There is always something there, I find that every experience creates value. One of the most loving things that my dad's wife once said was that every experience is learning, and should be cherished as such. It was following what I would have described as a particularly regretful series of decisions on my part, and yet, her response was so compassionate and loving. Yes, I learned. Would I have changed it, done things differently? I'm not sure - perhaps - but would have I learned what I did, and be where I am today because of it? Likely not.

The photo above shows an art installation of sand-filled hourglass timers, each clocking a different unit of time (for more information on this installation, see here). Attached to the chains on each one is a small plaque with either an exact measure of time, or a different experience: the amount of time to collect discarded needles in an urban park. Orgasm. The amount of time to listen to The Beatles' "Hey Jude". Things like that. The hourglasses are constantly in flux, flipping to start over as they complete a cycle. There is a definitive and methodical sound to the space; the sand movement is almost inaudible, the tick-and-whirr of the timers starting cycles out of sync with each other, the chains slowly moving against the wall as seconds pass. It is beautiful. No amount of time is too much or too little, and there is no judgement about how much time each one is taking.

Being patient is hard for me; accepting that not everyone will be a "lifetime" for me is hard; knowing that answers reveal themselves in the perfect amount of time (whatever that may be) is hard for me. But just as a tree doesn't grow overnight, so too does my life and the relationships in it need time to develop and also to discern where growth will flourish and where it will be pruned. In time. As I write this, I'm thinking of the perfect hush of that entryway and the hourglasses slowly, methodically, and eternally dropping sand grains. The process of coming to truly understand and appreciate the increments of time needed for all of my life's experiences will likely last me a lifetime.