In this hour, stacks of books are lying around a coffee table with scrappy bookmarks protruding from their yellow-edged pages, indicating the progress of an expedition into history and vocabulary previously unknown.
One moment, within this hour, thoughts are painted by the content of the text. Then, my eyes drift to the window to admire the hovering vibrations of a hummingbird drinking from the feeder, and the orange sun setting behind the ridge, and red flowers drooping from the rain that drenched their pedals yesterday.
And just like that, without my permission, the hour has passed.
This hour was designated for reading ancient thoughts about eternal realities, but it expired on schedule, unlike the unexpected beauties that appeared and faded from the window frame; outside of time, free from my control.
There are notes everywhere, lists of new vocabulary, scribbled half-thoughts on napkins, and the beginnings of something.
In this hour, there were tasks to be completed, but no one could account for the immeasurable moment that would fill it with common glory, holding hostage the ticking clock.
I have much to learn, but there's wisdom beyond the pages; outside of time, out the window, free from my control.