So much was changing. I was two months pregnant, and my husband and I had just left our much-loved downtown apartment for our first home a few miles north. The clerking gig was my foray into the professional world. If I did well at the law firm that summer, I’d have a job when I graduated from law school at the end of the next school year. A “work mug” seemed appropriate, especially since I drank coffee in amounts measurable in vats rather than cups.

Both the mug and I returned to the law firm after graduation the following year, where it lived on my desk between trips to the coffee station, other offices, and conference rooms.

We both came home for good a few years later. The mug transitioned seamlessly while I learned that women toting briefcases got more respect than women toting baby carriers, and that tasks completed at home would not stay “done.” We navigated toddler ballet, preschool, and a new baby. Each morning, before everyone woke up, my hands would slip comfortably around the mug as I let it remind me that I had once practiced law.

We moved to a different house. The mug accompanied me on car rides to new schools and new activities. It provided boatloads of coffee as I shared my kids’ experiences and discoveries. Most of the mug’s glaze had worn off, and it was starting to lose heat more quickly. Still, it remained “me.” Nobody else every reached for it or even asked if they could use it. I started to joke that if the mug ever broke, I would probably collapse as well. We were intertwined. We shared memories of another place, another time.

My girls graduated from college and shot out into their own adventures. Traitorous thoughts of replacing the mug occasionally crossed my mind, especially when my coffee cooled only minutes after I poured it. I found beautiful mugs in pottery stores and at craft fairs, but I never pulled the trigger. Even though the memories that came with the mug no longer tugged at my heart, letting go of it still felt like a big goodbye.

But life changes constantly, sometimes in big ways, sometimes infinitesimally. If we’re lucky, we get to evolve. We get to build on past experiences and facets instead of clinging to them as if they’ll fade away the second we stop reminding ourselves that they once existed.

One day last summer, my daughter and her wife gave me a gift basket. Among the wonderful and thoughtful items in it was a mug.

It took only one look.

My original mug is still here, hanging on the kitchen mug tree should I ever feel like using it. I rarely do.

The memories are lovely, but it’s time to move on.

Still, I’m startled by how much time has passed between posts. I honestly didn’t expect to be away this long.

My mom used to say (maybe too often) that time was whizzing past way too quickly. She knew she had the same 24 hours a day as everyone else, but her hours seemed more condensed. I filed those comments under “things-old-people-say” and just nodded.

You see where this is going.

Mom was right. I get it now. The older I become, the faster time races (although I still try not to say stuff like that out loud).

There are several theories about why time speeds up as we get older. One suggests that a year represents a larger portion of a child’s lifespan than it does a 65-year-old’s, making time seem to crawl for a child. Another explanation notes that because so many experiences and images are new to a young person, there is far more for the brain to process, and time “slows down” as it digests each new bit of information. Conversely, new experiences are harder to come by as we grow older, which creates fewer new memories to use as retrospective time milestones. Age-related changes in our vision and neurons slow the speed with which our brains receive and process the new mental images we do encounter. All this adds to the perception that time is speeding past us more rapidly than it did earlier in our lives.

(We could get into the whole debate of whether time actually exists at all, but let’s save that for another day.)

I have my own theory about why the texture of time changes as we grow older. For me, the acceleration of time (heavily laced with memories) is the Universe reminding us that our stretch on this planet is finite. If there’s anything we feel called to contribute, cherish, and/or explore while here … now’s the time to jump in.

I don’t think any of this is maudlin or morose. As in any good hotel, a well-timed wake-up call can keep you from missing something important.

Maybe you see where this one is going, too.

Publishing blog posts is not on my cosmic “hurry-up” list, but sorting through that babble in my head is. Communicating is. Reaching out is.

So I’m back to blogging. For now.

As always, I welcome conversations via either comment or email. I can be reached at jillmorrowbooks@gmail.com.